


We Have No Words

by Kryptaria



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Angst, Canon-Typical Violence, Captain America: The First Avenger, Captain America: The Winter Soldier Compliant, M/M, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Power Dynamics, Pre-Serum Steve Rogers, Survivor Guilt, Work In Progress, minor self-harm
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-05-16
Updated: 2014-06-13
Packaged: 2018-01-25 07:58:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 39,911
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1640177
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kryptaria/pseuds/Kryptaria
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In 1937, the most important person in Steve Rogers' life is his best and only friend, Bucky Barnes. Both young men know that no matter what happens, nothing and no one will ever come between them. Because of their confidence in one another, they never discuss what happens between them -- not that they could put it into words.</p><p>Seventy years later, the Winter Soldier recognizes the one man who means more to him than anything, even his programming as HYDRA's assassin. Bucky fights to regain control of his mind, but winning his freedom comes at a cost.</p><p>Will Bucky and Steve ever have the words to discover just what they mean to one another?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is an epic that basically mugged my writing muse in a back alley and held her hostage until I started writing. It's a story of two men following their instincts and fumbling in the dark to discover what they want, without ever really discussing it. It's the story of kink and love and, above all else, communication.
> 
> And it exists because of the best team of betas and cheerleaders ever. They are, in alphabetical order, rayvanfox, scriptrixlatinae, stephrc79, and zephyrfox. Thank you, guys!
> 
> ~~~

**Thursday, November 25, 1937**

“This was a _stupid_ idea, Buck,” Steve muttered, shivering despite all his layers.

“Stupid? I’m a genius,” Bucky insisted softly, leaning close to Steve’s ear. His breath was warm, but that had nothing to do with the shiver it sent down Steve’s back. “Best date ever.”

Steve rolled his eyes and kicked at Bucky — at least, he hoped it was Bucky. The crowd was packed thick between the curb and the buildings. Steve was surrounded by a sea of shoulders and elbows, and he wondered if he should’ve let Bucky take ‘their’ dates by himself. After five years, Bucky should’ve learned that double dates just ended up with _both_ dames paying attention to Bucky and ignoring Steve, but he still kept trying.

His latest brilliant plan had been the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade. Bucky had splurged to pay for their trip into the city and promised lunch. Steve felt guilty, but there was no point in arguing once Bucky’s mind was set. So now Steve was trapped in a crowd, with two dames who were ignoring him, and Bucky, who refused to let Steve fade into the woodwork.

Occasionally, Steve could catch a glimpse of a balloon being pulled down the streets, and he heard snatches of music from a couple of marching bands. That was about as exciting as the day would get, he expected — especially since Bucky’s parents and sisters were up in Westchester for Thanksgiving, and they were spending the night. The only real question was which dame Bucky would bring home with him: his date, Steve’s, or both of them.

“Steve. _Steve_ ,” Bucky said, elbowing Steve out of his morose thoughts.

Steve pushed up his hat. It had been his dad’s old hat and didn’t fit right, but it sort of kept his ears warm. “What?”

“Look!” Bucky got close and pointed at a half-visible balloon floating by. It was huge, like all the rest of them. Steve could see a green jaw full of pointy white teeth and a yellow underbelly. “It’s sorta... Is it a dragon?”

“Kinda?” Steve guessed skeptically. “Maybe it’s a lizard?”

“Yeah. You could do better, I bet.” Bucky nudged Steve again. “That’s it. Draw me a dragon later?”

“Where am I gonna get a dragon to use as a model?”

Bucky leaned in close and said, “We could find out where they keep the floats after the parade, then break in.”

Steve laughed and shoved Bucky, who shoved him back hard enough to send him stumbling into a couple of guys crowding in on Steve’s other side. One of them pushed Steve almost off his feet, and Steve’s temper flashed, hot and sharp. He caught his balance and blocked another shove —

Only to be pulled out of the way by Bucky, who demanded, “You causing trouble?” and then all hell broke loose. One of the other guys threw a punch, and Bucky let it land, probably so he’d have the excuse to retaliate. The crowd around them surged as people pushed one another to get out of the way or to just watch. And while the first guy had Bucky distracted, the other one grabbed at Bucky’s other hand, so Steve caught the guy’s wrist and threw a punch — a lousy one, sure, but enough to get the guy’s attention.

Maybe it was a mistake, because the next thing he knew, he was spitting blood and hearing police whistles. But he wasn’t about to run and leave Bucky to get in trouble. He ducked another punch and grabbed a handful of Bucky’s coat, shouting, “Buck! Enough!” as he gave a hard pull.

Bucky was usually as tenacious as a police dog, but he gave up the fight at once. He turned and let Steve pull him aside, then grabbed hold of Steve’s arm and pushed ahead to clear a path through the crowd. Gasping for air, Steve ran, following blindly as Bucky dragged him out the other side of the crowd and down a side street. They kept running, slowing only after they turned a far corner.

Bucky grinned, still holding Steve’s arm to help him get his balance. “You okay, Steve?”

“Yeah,” Steve lied, chest burning. His jaw hurt where he’d taken a punch, he’d lost his dad’s hat, and his face was freezing from the cold despite how hot he felt under his coat. “You forgot our dates,” he gasped out.

“Yeah, whatever,” Bucky said dismissively, throwing his arm around Steve’s shoulders. “I didn’t like ’em all that much anyway. Did you?”

Steve laughed and buried his face against Bucky’s coat, trying to get his ears to thaw out. “They don’t even notice me when you’re around, Bucky.”

“Reason enough not to like ’em,” Bucky declared. “And since we’re not taking them out for lunch, we can get a real Thanksgiving dinner, just you and me. How’s that sound?”

Steve rolled his eyes and shoved Bucky away. “Like now _I’m_ your date.”

“You’ve stuck around longer than any of ’em.”

“Guess stupid’s contagious after all.”

 

~~~

 

Bucky herded Steve into the house and closed the door, trying not to show his concern. Steve had started coughing on the walk home from the diner, though he’d insisted he was okay, stubborn jerk that he was. Worried, Bucky gave Steve a push towards the stairs, saying, “Go take a hot bath. I’ll make us some coffee.”

“Bucky —”

“Steve.”

“I’m _fine_.” Stubbornly, Steve took off his coat, though he was visibly shivering, and hung it on the coat rack.

Bucky sighed, but he knew better than to argue with that tone. He hung up his own coat before he went for the kitchen. “I’m still making coffee.”

“Only if it’s for both of us.”

“Do I look like your waitress?” Bucky shot back, filling the copper pot with water.

Steve snickered as he dropped into what had become his usual seat at the kitchen table. “Let’s not find out. You’d make one ugly dame, Bucky.”

“Hey. I’ve got pretty eyes. That’s what... what’s-her-name said. The redhead.”

“Marie.”

“Yeah.” Bucky shook his head and put the pot on the stove. He lit the burner, then started opening cupboards, wondering where his mom had hidden the coffee grounds.

“Marie wore glasses, Buck. She couldn’t see an inch past her nose without them.”

“So?”

“She wasn’t wearing her glasses when she said it.”

Bucky shot an insincere glare at Steve. “Still. Pretty eyes. You and me both, in fact.”

Steve sighed. “Nobody looks —”

“Yeah, yeah, I’ve heard it before,” Bucky interrupted, hating how Steve talked down about himself.  He put the mugs down on the counter with a loud _thump_ , then walked over to the table. “You’ve gotta stop talking about yourself like that, Steve.”

That got another sigh that threatened to turn into a cough, though Steve held it back. “It’s been, what, five years? I’ve never had a date without you, and I’ve never had a second date, period.”

Bucky took a deep breath, nervousness spiking through him. _Five years_. Five years of the two of them against the world, and no one ever coming between them. Not a day went by without them seeing each other, at least for a little while, and their moms had taken to calling them twins. But Bucky didn’t want Steve as a surrogate brother. He was Bucky’s closest friend, but also something _more_.

“Sure, you have,” Bucky said, pulling his usual chair around the table to sit down close to Steve. “ _We’ve_ practically been dating for five years now.”

Steve shot him a look like he was cornered, and Bucky leaned back, suddenly guilty over how close they were. But he wasn’t good at being sincere — not like Steve was. People took one look at Bucky and knew he was trouble. They usually dismissed Steve or decided he was an angel. And then they usually decided Bucky was a bad influence on him.

“Hey, sorry —”

“Bucky,” Steve said at the same time, his voice all choked up. “I don’t — You’re —”

Bucky laughed, wondering if there was some way to go back in time so he could _not_ be stupid. “I’m just kidding,” he said, slouching back even more. He gave Steve’s chair a kick, hoping like hell that Steve would just laugh or smile or give some sort of hint that it was okay. “I mean, five years. If we were _really_ dating, we woulda at least kissed, right?”

Steve got that hard, stubborn look in his eyes — the one that usually meant he was about to start throwing punches. “So what are you waiting for?” he demanded.

Bucky’s heart stopped. “What?”

“You said it, Buck,” Steve challenged. “Five years. If we’re dating, we woulda kissed.”

Bucky tried to force out a laugh, but it sounded more like a gasp. “Well —”

“So? Kiss me.”

The force of Steve’s words, full of challenge and determination, rushed through Bucky like fire. He stared at Steve, thinking that if this was all a joke, he might actually have to throw a punch at Steve, because that was the only way he could see this ending.

Well. The only _other_ way.

“You think I won’t?” Bucky asked.

Steve’s eyes narrowed. “Do I have to tell you again?” he asked, his voice low and dangerous.

 _God_. Bucky fought to breathe as he leaned in, one hand gripping the edge of the table. And of course Steve didn’t make it easy for him — didn’t lean forward or tilt his head back or even close his eyes. He just stared, like he could see right into Bucky’s soul, and it was Bucky who retreated into darkness at the moment their lips touched.

One heartbeat. Two. Steve’s cold-chapped lips went from tight to soft. Bucky’s fingers clenched so hard he thought he’d break the table. His heart was racing. He turned his head a little, thinking how easy it would be to pull Steve into his arms.

The cold touch of Steve’s nose made Bucky flinch. He backed away, eyes opening wide, and he tried to find it in him to laugh or make a joke of it all — to repair what he was positive was irreparable damage to their friendship.

Steve was still staring at him. He licked at his bottom lip, and Bucky had the insane thought that Steve was _tasting_ him.

Then, in a voice like steel, Steve asked, “That the best you can do?”

“No,” Bucky actually answered before his brain caught up with his mouth.

A new light came into Steve’s eyes. One corner of his mouth twitched up, and he said, “Then you’ll have to do better next time.”

Bucky nodded, feeling like he’d just got hit in the head with a board. “Yeah. Okay,” he said, and pushed his chair back. Thank God he’d started coffee, so he had an excuse to escape himself. Otherwise, he might’ve actually tried to kiss Steve again.

 

~~~

 

Bucky had kissed him.

Steve sat at the table in a daze, listening to Bucky fixing their coffee, and tried to convince himself that this was all real.

 _Bucky had kissed him_.

Steve wanted to get up and go to Bucky, or maybe to go hide in the bathroom, but he couldn’t move. Steve had been kissed precisely once by one of his so-called dates, and he suspected that was on a dare. It had been cold and damp and tasted like lipstick. And while he didn’t have anything against dames — hell, in the privacy of his bedroom, he liked thinking about them very much — he’d never wanted a kiss from one as much as he wanted Bucky to kiss him again.

 _You could tell him to,_ a little voice whispered in the back of his mind, and that damned near stopped his heart. Because he _had_ told Bucky to, and maybe he’d meant it as a dare, but Bucky had actually done it. And Steve’s pants got a little more uncomfortable at the thought that Bucky had _obeyed_ him.

Bucky brought over the coffee, fixed the way Steve liked it. He’d always noticed things like that, whether it was how much sugar Steve took in his coffee or how he liked sleeping with two pillows instead of one.

“The family won’t be home until tomorrow afternoon,” Bucky said as he sat down. He didn’t move his chair close again, but he also didn’t move back around the corner of the table, to his usual spot. Steve was aware, down to the inch, just how far apart they were.

Steve smiled and wrapped both hands around the coffee mug. He was still cold from the walk home. “And you didn’t want to go with them.”

“Got better things to do here.” Bucky looked down at Steve’s hands. “You’re staying the night, remember?”

Steve opened his mouth to answer with his usual dismissive banter. They had a good rhythm, established over five years of teasing that never turned cruel and friendship that never faltered. Now, though, Steve hesitated. He wanted more.

Silently, he studied Bucky’s face, even more familiar than his own. Bucky was the only person Steve could accurately draw from memory, he’d spent so many hours watching. Staring, really.

“Steve?”

He snapped out of his daze and nodded. “Yeah. I’m staying. Mom’s working tonight. She gets a bonus for holidays.”

Bucky laughed, still not meeting Steve’s eyes. “After all the times we got in trouble for making noise late at night, now _both_ our places are empty.”

Steve tried to laugh, but it just came out as a sharp exhale. They’d be alone tonight. They didn’t have to worry about falling asleep together on a pile of couch cushions. Or... Or anyone walking in on them at all.

He picked up his coffee with both hands, to keep from spilling it, and took a sip. The bittersweet taste filled his mouth, washing away the faint hint of Bucky’s lips. He’d probably imagined it, but it felt like a loss anyway.

Steve had never lacked for courage. That was one of his failings, to hear Bucky tell it. So he looked up and said, as steadily as he could, “There’s no chance of anyone walking in on us if I tell you to kiss me again.”

Bucky stared at him with eyes that had gone dark and huge, with barely any of the blue visible. He opened his mouth and took a shaky breath. “Nobody,” he said in a voice like falling gravel.

Steve wanted to ask. Bucky was his everything — his only real friend, the only person who treated Steve like he wasn’t made of glass, the only person who _included_ Steve in his life. He wanted to ask, because he wanted Bucky to decide for himself. Because a couple of times, when Steve was out in public with his sketchpad, and he’d been paying too close attention to his subject —

— _always blue-eyed, with dirty blond hair in the summer and medium brown hair in the winter, always broad-shouldered and square-jawed and laughing_ —

— a couple of times, the guy Steve was drawing would come at him with accusations, words thrown like bricks crashing through a window. _Fairy. Cocksucker. Queer._ And Steve liked dames just as much as Bucky did. Maybe more, even. He’d never gotten close enough to one to know.

But he did know, right down to his bones, that he liked Bucky. That he more-than-liked Bucky. And no matter what the priests or the cops or the editorial pages said, he thought that maybe he even _loved_ Bucky, and that was okay.

“Kiss me,” he said, and he barely recognized the sharp bite of command in his own voice. “Kiss me like you really want to.”

Bucky made a choked sound. Coffee sloshed onto the table as he put his mug down, too hard. “Yeah. I do,” he said, and for once it was Bucky stuttering, not Steve, as if Bucky were gasping for air that wouldn’t come. “Want to, I mean.”

Steve felt drunk. Dizzy. His heart was racing dangerously fast. He pushed right up to the edge of his chair, as close to Bucky as he could get without falling off, and he said, “Prove it. Now, Buck.”

The noise Bucky made was exactly like the one Steve would make late at night, with one hand down his pants and the other fisted against his mouth, teeth biting into his fingers, because the walls of his apartment were thin. That sound shot right down into Steve’s gut and lower, and he could never remember being so hard — so _needy_ — in his life.

Bucky pushed his chair back. It rocked on two legs, then toppled over, falling with a crash that Steve barely heard, because Bucky’s hands were on him, cupping his jaw, fingers pressing hard into his cheekbones. Bucky’s mouth was soft and scorching hot, and — and, oh God, that was his tongue, Steve realized, licking at Steve’s lips as if trying to devour him.

 _Yes,_ Steve thought, or maybe he said it, because next thing he knew, _his_ mouth was open, and he felt the wet slide of Bucky’s tongue across his, followed by the scrape of Bucky’s teeth. Steve’s heart thumped heavily against his ribs, and he tentatively closed his teeth over Bucky’s lower lip.

Bucky’s groan was obscene. He sank down, almost pulling Steve off the chair. Steve bit even harder, then let go and soothed the bite with licks and kisses until he could no longer breathe.

He leaned down, resting his forehead against Bucky’s, feeling himself trembling with exhilaration. His skin felt too tight, like he’d caught fire and was burning up from the inside out. Slowly, so slowly, he felt the rush of blood ebb like the tide going out, and when he was no longer gasping, he dared to lift his head and open his eyes.

“Bucky?” he whispered.

Bucky looked up — _stared_ up as if in awe, as if Steve were the most wonderful thing he’d ever seen before. His mouth was open, and Steve could just barely see the imprint of teeth marks on his lower lip.

“Yeah?” Bucky asked, and it sounded like he had to force the word out.

“Are we okay?”

Bucky nodded, a jerky motion that made his always-neat hair tumble down into his eyes. “Yeah. Right?” he asked with such hope in his voice that Steve’s heart burst like a firework in his chest.

“Yeah,” he said, feeling his mouth curve up in a smile.

Bucky’s grin came to life. “Okay, then.” There was a hint of his cocky, overconfident self in his voice, as if he hadn’t just fallen out of his chair because of one kiss.

And because Steve wasn’t one to let a challenge go, he sat up and tried to match Bucky’s cocky smirk with one of his own. “One more,” he said, then coughed. He controlled it, ignoring the tickle in his throat, and insisted, “One more kiss, Bucky.”

A flush rose up Bucky’s cheeks. Deliberately, he licked his bottom lip, right where Steve had bit. He curled his fingers over Steve’s knees, and a little push got Steve to spread his legs, making room for Bucky to kneel up against the chair. Every breath pressed Bucky’s ribs against the insides of Steve’s thighs, and Steve had the insane thought that this would feel so much better if they were bare, feeling each other skin-to-skin.

That image consumed him, scattering his thoughts so much that he didn’t realize Bucky wasn’t kissing his mouth, until he felt a scorching hot kiss on his neck, right under his ear. He let out a strangled moan as the kiss seemed to shoot right through his body, making his dick impossibly harder. He grabbed for Bucky’s arms, digging his fingers into hard, tight muscles.

Bucky let up on the kiss just enough to ask, “Is — Is this okay?”

“Yeah,” Steve breathed. He got one hand up to the back of Bucky’s head, and he was proud that he was only trembling a little bit. “Do that more.”

Bucky’s exhale was shaky and hot. Steve shivered and let his head fall to the side as Bucky’s lips met skin again. God, he’d never _imagined_ this could feel so good, but now he didn’t want Bucky to stop.

And Bucky didn’t. He kissed all the way down to the neckline of Steve’s shirt. Then he kissed back up, even more slowly, his lips open just enough for Steve to feel the tip of his tongue. Steve had to bite his own lip to keep quiet, and he still let out a quiet whimper when Bucky’s lips closed over his earlobe.

“More?” Bucky whispered.

Steve couldn’t find the breath to speak. He nodded, and only when Bucky knelt up even higher did Steve realize he’d fisted one hand in Bucky’s hair. He thought about letting go, but then Bucky flicked his tongue over Steve’s ear, and Steve had to clench his hand tight, or he would’ve reached into his own pants. One touch was all it would take, he was so close. Wanted it so bad.

Maybe he said it. Maybe Bucky just _knew_. Because next thing Steve knew, Bucky’s hands were inching up Steve’s thighs. Bucky’s fingers were long and powerful, and Steve’s legs were so skinny, Bucky’s thumbs were almost against the seat of the chair, finding every sensitive spot that nobody had ever touched before.

“What else do you want me to do, Steve?” Bucky asked. “What do you want?”

 _More_ and _higher_ and _harder_ and _yes_ all crashed together in Steve’s head. He didn’t have the breath to speak, even if he’d had the words. He forced his eyes open and pulled back to look at Bucky, terrified that they were right at the edge of a cliff, and one step would send them both toppling.

But Bucky’s eyes were full of need. His strong chest was heaving as he fought to catch his breath. Steve dared to look lower, to where Bucky’s dick strained against his pants.

Relief hit Steve like a punch in the gut. Bucky liked this, what they were doing. He _wanted_ this.

“Touch —” Steve said, though it came out as a strangled cough. He swallowed and made his hand relax so he could comb his fingers through Bucky’s hair, feeling the strands. All the years they’d wasted not doing _this_...

“Steve?” Bucky’s voice caught.

Steve finally got a breath into his lungs. “Touch me. My —” He faltered at the last instant and instead looked down, a quick flick of his eyes. “There.” And then, because he couldn’t stand the idea of Bucky _watching_ him, he added, “And kiss me again.”

“Fuck, yeah,” Bucky muttered, and the filthy language spiked Steve’s need to new heights. Bucky knelt up all the way and stole Steve’s breath in a hot, messy kiss, clicking their teeth together before he found just the right angle.

Steve had a half-second to enjoy the kiss before Bucky’s hand slid up higher, fumbling, searching. Bucky didn’t bother with Steve’s suspenders or fly. He just shoved his hand under Steve’s waistband and twisted his wrist, fingers spread. His fingertips brushed across the very tip of Steve’s dick, then slid down.

That was all it took. Steve gasped, hands going tight in Bucky’s hair. The whole world trembled like a ship cresting over waves and back down again. Steve groaned and shivered as Bucky panted into his mouth, whispering his name — _Steve, Steve, Steve_ — before it turned into a drawn-out moan. With one last, messy kiss to the corner of Steve’s mouth, Bucky leaned forward, pressing his forehead to Steve’s collarbone. His hand gripped Steve’s waistband so tightly that his knuckles dug into Steve’s gut with every breath. His other hand —

Bucky’s other hand, Steve saw, eyes wide, was down between his own legs, fingers shoved into his pants through his open fly.

“Did you —” slipped out before Steve could stop himself. Bucky had once bragged that he had so many dames lined up to go out with him, he hadn’t needed to touch himself since he turned thirteen. But now, with Steve, he’d — they _both_ had — right in their pants.

Slowly, Bucky backed away, though not too far. He zipped up his pants, shoulders hunched as if hiding what he’d done. “You okay, Steve?”

“Yeah. More than okay,” Steve said honestly.

Bucky looked up hopefully. “Yeah?”

Steve smiled. “Yeah, only...”

“Only what?”

Steve screwed up his courage and took a step, not sure if he’d go right over the cliff or not. “Only next time, you gotta take off my pants first,” he said sternly. “I don’t like doing laundry that much.”

Bucky laughed. He knelt back up and gave Steve a quick, almost shy kiss. “Okay. There’s some of your clothes in the bottom drawer, if you wanna change. I’m gonna —” He gestured towards the bathroom across the hall. “Then I’ll make more coffee.”

Steve tried to sound casual. “Okay,” he said, and walked upstairs, feeling light as a cloud. Maybe everything had changed, but if so, it was for the better, because they could still be Steve and Bucky. Now, though, maybe they could also be _more_.


	2. Chapter 2

**Friday, September 2, 1938**

Rain pattered on the radiator, blown in by the slight breeze that did nothing to cool Bucky’s house. Every window was open, but the muggy, late summer air was relentless in its effort to smother all of Brooklyn.

“You shoulda gone with them,” Steve said, struggling to find breath to speak. The heat had settled into his limbs and brain, and he wasn’t sure he could keep his eyes open. He certainly didn’t have the strength to adjust his pillows, even though his neck was getting an uncomfortable crick.

“Gone with _who_?” Bucky mumbled from where he was sprawled, face-down, next to Steve.

“Your family. Gotta be cooler on Long Island.”

Bucky moved just enough to slap at Steve’s leg. “Yeah, and no _you_.”

Steve grunted acknowledgement and let his eyes close. “Stupid.”

“Caught it from you.”

Steve couldn’t get up the energy to laugh. He moved enough to toe off his shoes, then let his heels thump back down onto the floor. Thankfully, Mrs. Barnes was compulsive about keeping the house neat, despite having four kids. The floor was mopped to within an inch of its life, meaning Steve and Bucky could lie there, shirts off, and try to let the polished wood soak some of the heat out of their bodies. Not that it was helping much.

The next thing Steve knew, thunder crashed overhead, jolting him out of his hazy sleep like a gunshot. He about jumped out of his skin and stared wildly around, for one moment wondering what the hell he was doing half-naked on the floor. Had he passed out?

From the darkness nearby, he heard a familiar groan, followed by, “Whose stupid idea was it to sleep on the floor?”

“Yours, probably,” Steve said, letting his head fall back onto the throw pillow taken from the couch. He felt around for the other pillow, but it had gone missing.

A hand touched his ribs, and he flinched in surprise. “Yeah, but you obviously agreed,” Bucky said, sliding his fingertips up onto Steve’s chest.

Steve hummed lazily. His back hurt, but the thunder must have broken the heat. While it wasn’t _cold_ with all the windows open, it was no longer suffocatingly hot.

Bucky’s fingers traced patterns over Steve’s chest. He knew all of Steve’s ticklish spots and avoided them. Steve closed his eyes, feeling his heart rate pick up, though he knew Bucky wouldn’t do anything more. Not without Steve’s okay. That was how _this_ was, between them.

“Buck.”

“Yeah, Steve?” Bucky asked, inching a little closer. His hand slid up to Steve’s collarbone. Rough fingertips dragged over the thin skin, making Steve shiver.

“Wanna move to the couch?”

Bucky lifted his head, a half-visible silhouette, face lost in shadow, though Steve knew he was smiling. “Think you can make it that far?”

“Ha ha, Buck,” Steve muttered, though it did take more than a little effort for him to get up off the floor. Bones cracked painfully as he stood and half-stumbled the three steps to the couch, where he collapsed gratefully onto the cushions.

A flash of lightning illuminated the living room just long enough to wreck Steve’s vision, leaving him dazzled. He listened to Bucky moving around, but he didn’t feel anything on the cushions next to him.

“It’s too hot for coffee,” Steve warned, because Bucky didn’t have a lick of common sense when it came to hot coffee in the summer. Sure, it made sense to have a cup before going to work in the morning, but not throughout the day or in the evening.

Then Bucky spoke, not from the kitchen but from right behind Steve, where he leaned over the couch to ask, “Then what _do_ you want?”

His deep voice made Steve shudder in the best way. “Nothing you can do from back there. Get over here.”

A laugh was all the warning Steve got before Bucky vaulted over the couch to land on the cushion, and the couch frame creaked ominously as Bucky twisted around to sit backwards, facing Steve. He curled up his legs to one side and leaned across Steve’s lap, bracing his hand on the other side of Steve’s hips. He cozied up close to Steve until their bare chests were just inches apart.

“This better?”

Glad the darkness hid his grin, Steve faked a huff of irritation. How had he ever gotten so lucky? After twenty years of practically being alone, these stolen moments gave him something to live for.

“Kiss me,” Steve said, falling into that firm tone that seemed to work so well for both of them. Before Bucky could lean in, though, Steve said, “Not too much. Might still be too hot.”

Bucky gave an exaggerated groan as he put his free hand to Steve’s body and felt his way up to his face. “I could dump you in the bathtub, you know.”

“Did you _not_ want to kiss me?” Steve threatened, though he didn’t mean it.

“Steve...”

“Go on. Real light,” Steve ordered — because there was no point in _not_ acknowledging that was his tone of voice.

The kisses that followed were soft, barely-there brushes of Bucky’s mouth over Steve’s, with little hints of Bucky’s tongue flicking against Steve’s lips. His fingertips rested against Steve’s face, rubbing against his jaw. Steve traced the muscles in Bucky’s other arm, muscles that were so tight they trembled from holding his weight up across Steve’s lap.

“Yeah. Like that,” Steve said, and it was still an order, though his voice had gone breathy. He let his head fall back, and Bucky obligingly kissed his way down the front of Steve’s throat. Steve shifted and sank lower, arching his back to press his chest up against Bucky’s mouth.

“Too hot for pants, Steve?” Bucky asked into his skin.

Steve swallowed. “Yeah,” he said roughly.

Bucky’s hand dropped from Steve’s face to his waistband. He’d gotten good at undoing Steve’s flies, even in the dark. Steve lifted his hips, and Bucky moved off the couch to pull Steve’s pants down and off.

“Socks, too,” Steve said, because while his feet always got cold, even in the summer, he felt stupid wearing socks and underwear — or, worse, just socks.

Bucky laughed and ran his hands down Steve’s legs, pulling off one sock, then the other. Then he stayed there, between the couch and the coffee table, and rubbed his face against the inside of Steve’s knee.

“What else d’you want, Steve?”

Another swallow. God, he _loved_ this, but he was terrified that one day, Bucky would say no to him, and this would all fall apart. They were playing a game that had no rules, no boundaries, and Steve didn’t know how to win or lose.

But he wasn’t ready to quit. He took a deep breath, then asked, sharp as he could manage, “Did I say to stop kissing?”

Bucky’s stuttered exhale shivered over Steve’s thigh. “No,” he said, turning to kiss a little higher up Steve’s leg. Steve bit his own lip to keep from making all sorts of embarrassing noises as Bucky moved up, finding every sensitive spot on the inside of Steve’s thigh. His hands moved more freely up and down Steve’s legs, his touch gentle and just this side of ticklish. Then Bucky opened his mouth and pressed his tongue against Steve’s skin, licking slowly up as his fingers slid between Steve’s thigh and the hem of his underwear.

It was overwhelming. Steve went from warm and interested right to the edge of _too much_ all at once.

“Bucky.”

Bucky hummed questioningly but didn’t stop. His fingertips moved closer together, and now Steve could feel hot breath right at the hem of his underpants.

Panic shot through Steve. Sure, he’d come in his pants that first time, but so had Bucky, and they’d never talked about it. Not then and not the few times since. But he couldn’t. Not now. Not like this.

“Bucky!” He grabbed for Bucky’s hands and shoved him away.

Bucky let it happen. He was ten times stronger than Steve, but he backed off anyway, sitting back on his heels between Steve’s feet.

“Did —” Steve tried to catch his breath. Tried to sound like a man, not like a frightened kid. “Did I say you could touch?”

Bucky’s hands twitched against Steve’s, and he didn’t say anything for a few seconds. Then he grinned and said, “Guess that means you’ll have to stop me, then, doesn’t it?”

Steve let go, gritting his teeth in frustration. Bucky _knew_ Steve didn’t have a shot in hell of wrestling him down, though that didn’t mean Steve wouldn’t try. Was that what he wanted? To get into a damn wrestling match, in this heat?

Steve wasn’t stronger than Bucky, but he was just as clever — maybe more clever, because Steve had to _think_ his way through fights, instead of depending on just his fists.

He felt around on the couch so he could snag the shirt and tie he’d taken off earlier, after work. The tie was a good one, but he could always iron it later.

“Turn around.”

“Huh?”

“Turn around,” Steve ordered, grinning madly in the darkness. “Put your hands behind your back.”

For endless seconds, Bucky didn’t move. Steve was almost shaking with exhilaration and fear and desire. When Bucky shifted around on his knees, turning his back to the couch, Steve had to bite his tongue to keep from shouting.

He leaned down, feeling his way over Bucky’s body in the darkness. Bucky was breathing hard, pulse racing in his wrists. Steve pulled Bucky’s hands together so his wrists crossed, then wound the tie around them. He closed his eyes to visualize what he was doing, but all those years of drawing had given him a pretty good imagination. He gave the ends a twist and brought them between Bucky’s wrists, trapping them in an X. He tied a perfect square knot, then brought the ends around so he could tie another knot, this one out of reach of Bucky’s fingers.

“Fuck,” Bucky whispered.

Steve licked dry lips. “You okay?”

“Fuck,” he answered again. “Yeah. Steve.”

Elation slammed into Steve like the burn of really good bourbon. He leaned back, legs still spread, and said, “Then get back to kissing me.”

 

~~~

 

Bucky shuffled around, straining against the tie. His heart was beating so fast, he was dizzy, because he _hadn’t_ expected this. He’d just been running his mouth like always, playing the game with Steve, until Steve suddenly changed the rules in a way Bucky had never anticipated.

He hadn’t realized just how _good_ it would be until it was done. The tie was tight, cutting off the circulation to Bucky’s fingers, and the position strained his shoulders enough to almost hurt. He was off-balance and clumsy, too. When he leaned in to mouth at Steve’s inner thigh, he overbalanced, and his chest hit the couch.

Steve’s fingers threaded into his hair. Bucky’s eyes closed, and he kissed Steve’s skin hard to keep from asking Steve to pull. Bucky had done that with a couple of dames who liked getting playful, but with Steve — God, with Steve, he didn’t have to be gentle and careful, and neither did Steve.

Bucky spread his legs to get closer to the couch — and _fuck,_ he was still wearing his pants, while Steve was almost naked. He couldn’t hide the little noise he made when he realized he _couldn’t_ get his pants off. Couldn’t get a hand down between his legs. And the way Steve was obviously enjoying what Bucky was doing, _he_ wasn’t going to be helping Bucky out any time soon.

Everything was out of Bucky’s control. He couldn’t get free, and Steve was too quick, too scrappy for Bucky to be able to get on top of him. Bucky closed his eyes tightly and licked over Steve’s skin, trying to make this _good_ for him, because at least one of them should get off on this. And though they usually finished off at the same time, rubbing against hands or bodies while they lost themselves in a kiss, maybe this time, they’d take turns: first Steve, then Bucky.

And something inside Bucky _really_ liked that idea. Like if he made Steve feel good enough, Steve’s touch would go from some unspoken mutual courtesy to a... a _reward_.

Bucky’s breath caught at that, and he had to rest his forehead against Steve’s thin leg. Steve’s fingers combed through his hair for a few patient seconds before giving a little tug.

“You done already?”

Bucky shook his head. He couldn’t find it in himself to speak. Breathing in sharp little huffs, he kissed all the way up Steve’s leg until he had his nose pressed to the crease of Steve’s thigh, his underwear rucked up. Bucky tasted sweat and felt longer hairs under his tongue, and he turned, rubbing his face against Steve’s thigh, before he tried to get under the cloth.

“Bucky?” Steve asked, sounding uncertain in a way Bucky didn’t like.

“Is this — Can I?” Bucky asked tightly. He lifted his head just enough to look up in Steve’s direction, though it was too dark to really see. Why the _hell_ hadn’t he turned on the lights? He wanted to see that look in Steve’s eyes, blown dark with lust but still sharp with avarice and power. Scrawny little Steve Rogers, the badass nobody ever expected. And Bucky would do _anything_ for him.

“Yeah,” Steve breathed. “If you —”

Bucky braced himself. _If you want_. Could he admit it to Steve? To _himself_?

Then Steve’s hand went tight in Bucky’s hair, lighting fireworks behind his eyes from pain that Bucky had never thought could feel so _good_. “Yeah,” Steve said, and his voice was sharp as a gunshot. “Move back a second.”

And because there was nothing delicate about either of them, Steve gave Bucky a shove, sending him back on his heels and almost into the coffee table. He fought against the tie instinctively, and another wave of need slammed into him as he realized again that he _couldn’t_ get free.

He heard the rustle of fabric as Steve got rid of his underwear. Then Steve reached forward, feeling around until he could pet Bucky’s hair again, gentle for a moment.

Why that soft touch was just as devastating as that hard shove had been, Bucky had no idea. He pushed into Steve’s hand before he could stop himself. And that was fucking _embarrassing_ , him rubbing up against Steve like a dog wanting attention.

But Steve kept petting him, smoothing his hair back for a few blissful seconds, before giving a tug to pull Bucky forward once more.

This time, when Bucky’s chest hit the couch, he didn’t screw around. He followed the line of Steve’s thigh with his mouth, and he didn’t stop. He didn’t give himself time to think too much about what he was doing, because it was like a line he’d never really thought about crossing. Wanting to kiss or touch Steve was one thing, and getting off was fun and all, but suddenly this had all turned heavy and serious. And the last thing he wanted was to chicken out.

So he pushed his tongue right up against the base of Steve’s dick and moved up, braced for — for _what?_ Steve’s skin was soft, his dick was hard and hot, and it tasted just like the rest of him. And _nothing bad happened_. The world didn’t end. His parents didn’t burst through the door to throw him out for this. And all the words he’d heard and even thrown around became no big deal.

 _Cocksucker,_ he thought as he got up to the head. Steve’s foreskin slipped down, and the taste was sharper, slick against Bucky’s tongue. Still, not bad. Not bad in any way. And especially not with the noises Steve was making, little gasps and moans and even Bucky’s name in there, when he could actually shape the word.

Bucky remembered the couple of girls that had done this for him — far fewer than he’d bragged about to Steve, but that was okay. He knew what he liked, and he figured that couldn’t be too different from what Steve would like. And that made him realize that Steve might not even know. Had _any_ of their double-dates even gotten this far for Steve?

The thought that Bucky might be Steve’s first spiked his need even higher.

He had to kneel up so he could get his mouth around the head of Steve’s dick. Steve’s hands clenched in his hair. Bucky was as careful as he could be, keeping his mouth open wide so he didn’t touch Steve’s skin with his teeth. He licked harder to make up for it, and when he took Steve a little deeper, so the head pressed up to the roof of Bucky’s mouth, the sound Steve made was the best thing Bucky had ever heard before.

“Bucky. God, Buck,” Steve was saying, and the pull on Bucky’s hair felt almost like he wanted Bucky to stop, maybe give him a second to catch his breath, but his hips were pushing up.

And Bucky didn’t want to stop. Not yet. Maybe not at all. He’d sort of thought about this — doing this for Steve, maybe even Steve doing it for him — but he’d never really let those thoughts finish.

But Steve would, for him. Steve would do _anything_ for Bucky, even put up with all the stupid shit that Bucky thought was fun. And Bucky really wanted to see Steve just fly apart.

So he backed up, then took Steve deeper, deep as he could, and he found a rhythm that he could manage, even off-balance as he was. Steve’s hands, still fisted in Bucky’s hair, were about a half-second off that rhythm, pulling when Bucky was pushing down and getting in his way when he came back up, and the rhythmic sting turned to fire on his scalp.

 _Harder,_ Bucky wanted to say, but he didn’t want to stop. He could take Steve almost all the way before Steve’s dick hit that spot in his throat that made his gut turn. If his hands were free, he could’ve taken hold of Steve’s dick to help out, but he managed. More than managed, judging by the noises Steve made.

Then Steve yanked hard, hard enough to rip out hairs, pulling Bucky off. Steve let go with one hand, and Bucky could just barely see Steve staring down at him in the darkness. He heard movement, fast and sharp, the way Steve liked getting off.

“Let me,” Bucky said, straining against Steve’s hold in his hair, but it was too late. He knew the sound of Steve’s release, the way Steve’s breath would cut off in a high-pitched gasp, and the closest Bucky could get was to nuzzle at the base of his dick, feeling the hair catch on his stubble and the way Steve’s dick pulsed under tight, soft skin.

The hand on Steve’s dick went still, and the one in Bucky’s hair relaxed. When Bucky turned and pressed his lips to the base of Steve’s dick, right above his balls, Steve nearly jumped out of his skin.

“God,” Steve gasped out, sounding exhausted.

Bucky closed his eyes and backed off to rest his head on Steve’s thigh. He couldn’t remember ever being this hard, but... it was okay. His hands had gone numb, and he wasn’t fighting the tie anymore. He wasn’t thinking about coaxing Steve into untying him or putting a hand down his pants or anything at all, really. He was just _with_ Steve, and that was enough.

It felt like forever and no time at all before Steve moved. He dragged his shirt over to clean up, then eased Bucky back away from the couch, making room for him to slide down, half-sitting on Bucky’s bent legs.

“Bucky...” Steve’s voice was rough and low and the sweetest Bucky had ever heard him sound. He took Bucky’s face in his hand and kissed, slow and lazy. Too late, Bucky realized Steve might not like the taste of what he had done, but Steve just kept kissing, stoking the fires under his skin back into a blaze.

“Steve,” Bucky said. No, _pleaded_.

“Yeah, Buck. Lean back,” Steve said, and Bucky leaned back, sucking in his gut so Steve could undo his belt and pants. The angle was awkward and uncomfortable, but the feel of Steve’s thin, cool fingers was the best thing Bucky had ever felt before. “Do you want — What you did —”

“Don’t stop,” Bucky interrupted, helpless to move his hips and thrust up against Steve’s hands. “Fuck, don’t stop, Steve.”

“Okay. I gotcha,” Steve said, wrapping an arm around Bucky’s shoulders for balance as he worked his hand deeper into Bucky’s pants. He kissed Bucky’s cheek, the corner of his mouth, and finally found his lips as he managed a jerky rhythm, too dry, too fast, but Bucky needed _anything_.

“Harder,” Bucky whispered into Steve’s kiss, and maybe Steve misunderstood. His fingers went tight and he sank his teeth into Bucky’s lip, and the pain burst into raw, hot pleasure. He groaned and pulled at the tie, and he’d never felt _anything_ like it before. Hell, he might’ve even blacked out, because the next thing he knew, Steve was kneeling back against the couch, awkwardly shoving his own damp shirt across Bucky’s abdomen.

“I should — take the tie off,” Steve said hesitantly.

Bucky laughed, too exhausted and drained to care. “Can’t feel my fingers, so yeah, maybe.”

“Buck!” Steve threw the shirt aside and climbed off Bucky’s knees. He almost tripped when he shoved the coffee table out of the way. Bucky leaned forward, head against the couch, and tried to remember how to breathe. “Why didn’t you say something?” Steve asked, working his fingers under Bucky’s hands to get at the first knot.

Bucky shrugged. “Liked it too much,” he admitted.

Steve’s hands stopped moving. “Yeah?”

Bucky hid his face against the couch and barely nodded. “Yeah,” he mumbled, wondering if Steve _hadn’t_.

“Maybe,” Steve said slowly as he got a finger into the knot and opened it. “Maybe we should be more careful next time?”

 _Next time,_ Bucky thought, grinning. “Don’t have to. Be careful, I mean. I’m tougher than I look, you know.”

“Tough _and_ stupid,” Steve said with a huff as he started on the next knot.

Bucky laughed, all the fear falling away from him. Steve undid the knot, and the tie finally came free. Bucky’s shoulders burned, and his hands started tingling at the very tips. He grimaced, knowing it would get worse before it felt better.

“Don’t forget pretty,” he said smugly, getting up just enough to turn and fall onto the couch. He reached for Steve, but Steve was already climbing up beside him, leaning against his arm. Steve gave him a shove, and Bucky raised his arm to circle Steve’s shoulders and pull him close.

“Tough, pretty, and stupid,” Steve said, resting his head against Bucky’s chest. “Just what I need.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Saturday, September 3, 1938**

The rain continued through Friday night and into Saturday, ruining their plans to go out. Instead, Steve and Bucky stayed inside, where Bucky consistently beat Steve at cards and Steve returned the favor over Bucky’s father’s chessboard. For dinner, Steve reheated a casserole Mrs. Barnes had left “so they wouldn’t starve,” or so she said, and Bucky ventured out into the storm to pick up a couple bottles of beer. Steve wasn’t a big drinker — even Bucky teased him for being a lightweight — but the beer went down just fine with the casserole.

Afterwards, even the storm couldn’t dampen Steve’s spirits. He took off his shoes and stretched out on the couch, watching Bucky mess with the radio to try and get reception. Finally, Steve said, “Give it a rest, Buck. Just put on a record and come here.”

Bucky looked back over his shoulder, and a sly, knowing smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. “Yeah?”

Steve ignored the flutter of interest in his gut. That hadn’t been what he’d meant, but... “Yeah.”

“Twice in one weekend, huh?” Bucky turned off the radio and picked up the first record in the stack. He slid it out of the sleeve, set it in place, then moved the needle to the beginning. It was one of Mr. Barnes’ jazz records, unfamiliar and interesting, at any other time. Now, Steve watched as Bucky stood there next to the record player, slowly unbuttoning his shirt, and he didn’t hear the music at all.

“Did you have something better to do?” Steve challenged a little breathlessly. The curtains were drawn, and Bucky didn’t make a move to turn off the light. He just kept unbuttoning, revealing his summer-tanned, muscular chest.

“You got something you _want_ me to do?” Bucky shot back as he undid his cuffs.

Steve wanted to go help, but he knew he had to stay casual. That was how the game was played. With Steve making the decisions, and Bucky doing the work.

“Lemme see you first,” he said, never looking away from Bucky’s eyes. “Then we’ll get to the ‘doing’ part.”

Bucky was gorgeous and knew it. His cocky grin lit up his eyes, and he made a show of pushing down his suspenders before he took off his shirt, real slow. Steve had to remind himself to breathe. He could get lost in the play of light and shadow over Bucky’s skin, and he didn’t know what he wanted more: to draw Bucky, capturing him in charcoal, or to touch and kiss and taste every inch of him.

The shirt hit the floor, and Steve bit back a grin. They had the house to themselves for two more days before Bucky’s family got home. No need to rush about cleaning up. Hiding the evidence.

“Socks next,” Steve said, sitting up so he could take off his own socks.

Bucky let out a good-natured huff and rested his hand on the fireplace mantel so he could lift one foot, then the other. He tossed the socks down next to his shirt, asking, “Should I keep going?”

“Did I say stop?” Steve countered.

“Just making sure,” Bucky said, staring at Steve with burning eyes. His hands undid his waistband and fly. He was muscular and built, and his pants didn’t just fall down. He hooked his thumbs in the waistband and pushed. Steve let his eyes roam over Bucky’s back and shoulders, fixing the image in his mind so he’d be able to draw it later, if he got up the courage.

When Bucky stood up, Steve let out a breath. Bucky had taken down his underwear, too. His dick — there was no sense being shy about it, not after everything they’d done. His dick was already growing hard, rising from...

“Bucky,” Steve breathed, forgetting all about _casual_. He kicked his legs ungracefully off the couch and sat up, staring.

Proud as a peacock, Bucky walked across the living room. He put a foot against the coffee table and gave it a shove, rattling the glass candy dish Mrs. Barnes never bothered to refill except for guests. “Did it this morning,” he said.

Steve couldn’t stop himself from reaching out to touch the neatly trimmed hair. Bucky’s whole body shivered, but he held still for Steve, and he even spread his legs just a little bit. What had been an unruly tangle of chestnut hair was now short and a little sharp. Steve slid a hand between Bucky’s balls and his thigh, and even _that_ hair was cut short.

“Bucky...” was all Steve could say. All he could _think_.

Bucky’s shrug was falsely casual. “It’s nothing. Ma left her scissors on the bathroom counter, and I found her makeup mirror... Did it while you were sleeping.”

The world swam as Steve thought about it — about Bucky doing this, for _him_. “Bucky, should I? Do you want —”

“Nah.” Bucky took another step closer, then got his knees up on the couch so he could straddle Steve’s lap. “I like what you’ve got down there,” he said, sliding his hands up over Steve’s arms to his shoulders.

“Do you?” The question came out a little plaintive, and Steve gritted his teeth, furious that he’d let his nervousness slip.

Bucky settled his weight on Steve’s legs. He was heavy, but not too heavy. “Yeah,” he said, toying with the points of Steve’s shirt collar. “I mean, I like dames —”

“Really?” Steve drawled. “’Cause I never noticed.”

Bucky laughed. “And so do you, right?”

“Well, yeah. Only they don’t like me so much.”

“I do.”

The heat that blossomed in Steve’s chest was new — not the burning hot _need_ that Bucky had always inspired, but something deeper, something that filled empty spots he’d never known he had.

It had to be love.

Bucky leaned in and kissed Steve, and the kiss was all the sweeter because Steve hadn’t said a word about it. Bucky had just known what he wanted — what they _both_ wanted. Steve sank back against the couch and pulled Bucky with him. He opened his mouth, and the kiss changed, sparks burning up through the affection and warmth. Bucky licked at Steve’s mouth, and Steve took charge, pushing against Bucky’s tongue, flicking the tip of his tongue over Bucky’s teeth. When Steve bit Bucky’s bottom lip and pulled, Bucky groaned, hands fisting in Steve’s shirt.

“Off,” Steve said when he released the bite. “Clothes off.”

“Mine? They are, Steve,” Bucky teased.

“Mine, you —” Steve smacked his hand into Bucky’s chest, and Bucky’s breath hitched so suddenly that Steve asked, “Buck? You okay?”

Bucky’s hips shifted, and though Steve didn’t dare look down, he could feel the hard length of Bucky’s dick pressed against his body. “Yeah,” Bucky said with a laugh that was all fake. “You’d have to do a lot worse to hurt me, Steve.”

Needing to buy time, Steve gave Bucky another shove, and this time Bucky backed off and went right for Steve’s shirt. Bucky seemed to be struggling with the buttons, but Steve didn’t try to help. He kept hearing that _slap_ , light and casual, and the way Bucky had just stopped breathing, body so tight that his muscles trembled.

He’d _liked_ that slap. Just like he liked it when Steve bit his lip or pulled his hair.

The thought sent an uncomfortable spike of arousal straight through Steve — arousal thick with fear. What they did with each other, a lot of people thought it was wrong. Sure, in this neighborhood it wasn’t anything new, but this was one little corner of Brooklyn.

Steve had convinced himself it was okay, because they _did_ like dames. Both of them. Steve would’ve given anything to have a dame actually like _him_ , but he knew that would never happen. No one would like him, man or woman — no one except Bucky. And for the last five years, it had been the two of them against the world.

He could never hurt Bucky. Only, he _wanted_ to. He wanted to overwhelm Bucky, to go from not enough to too much, to see just how far he could push before Bucky surrendered. Not because he wanted Bucky bloody and beaten, but because he wanted Bucky to forget everything in the world except for him.

Bucky pushed open Steve’s shirt and started to lean in, then stopped himself. Their eyes met, and Steve felt the way Bucky just _gave in_ , watching him, waiting for the okay to touch or kiss or keep undressing him. Whatever Steve wanted.

Steve wouldn’t _hurt_ Bucky. But he could do things that Bucky would _feel_. He’d just have to not cross that line.

 

~~~

 

Something was going on inside Steve. Bucky knew it just looking at him — the way he’d get a vertical crease between his brows, how he’d worry at the inside of his cheek, making his face look even thinner than usual. Bucky wanted to ask what was wrong. He wanted to say the right words to make that crease go away.

“Steve?”

In answer, Steve reached out and grabbed a good handful of Bucky’s hair, twisting tight enough that Bucky saw stars. His gasp of surprise was more than halfway to a moan of pleasure. Steve pulled down hard, and Bucky fell into a kiss that was aggressive and desperate, as if Steve wanted to steal the air right out of his lungs.

Bucky grabbed the back of the couch and gave Steve everything he had. The kiss was hot and wild, not the sort of kiss Bucky would expect from a good girl on a third date or even a bad one on a first date. _Definitely_ not the sort of kiss Bucky ever thought to get from Steve, but he should’ve known better. Steve was a lion in a housecat’s body.

Another sharp tug jerked Bucky’s head back. Steve pressed his mouth to Bucky’s throat, and it was Bucky’s turn to bite the inside of his cheek to keep from embarrassing himself. Steve kissed and touched a little, but mostly he told Bucky what to do to them both.

This was rare. Special.

Bucky couldn’t hold back when he felt Steve’s teeth scrape over his skin. When Steve bit into the thick muscle between his neck and his shoulder, he gasped out, “Fuck, Steve.”

Steve let out a contented little growl and bit harder as he thrust up. His slim hips fit right between Bucky’s legs like they’d been made for each other. The feel of Steve’s trousers on bare skin, with only the shortest hair between them, threatened to drive Bucky completely out of his skull.

“Steve. Steve,” Bucky whispered, not knowing if he was demanding or pleading or what. He tried to hunch down even lower, so Steve could bite anywhere he wanted, but Steve was short and had sunk into the couch cushions.

Slowly, Steve released the bite, leaving stinging fire to blossom under Bucky’s skin. Steve’s head fell back, and he stared up at Bucky, lips red, eyes wide. “I want — Like last night,” he gasped out.

“Fuck, yeah, Steve,” Bucky said, shoving himself ungracefully back. He fell to the floor at Steve’s feet, pulling at Steve’s belt hard enough to lift his hips up off the couch.

“Easy!” Steve’s laugh almost turned into a cough.

Cursing himself, Bucky let go. “Sorry. You okay?”

“Yeah. Just — go slow, okay?” Steve gently touched Bucky’s face, as if afraid he might break.

Not that Bucky was having any of that. He didn’t need gentle. He turned against Steve’s hand, then caught one finger between his lips. Remembering when one of his old flames had done this to him, he sucked Steve’s finger into his mouth.

Steve’s breath hitched. Bucky closed his eyes to better hear. When he licked all the way down, teasing his tongue between Steve’s first two fingers, Steve damned near yelped.

Grinning around Steve’s finger, Bucky looked up at Steve. Bucky pulled back so his lips just touched Steve’s fingertip and asked, “You want me to do that to your dick?”

Steve’s face went red. God, he was so easily embarrassed — and so fucking turned on by it, Bucky knew.

“Well, Steve?” Bucky said, dropping his voice into a soft, coaxing purr. Steve was staring at his mouth as if hypnotized, so he sucked Steve’s finger in again and knelt up so Steve could get a nice, close look.

Slowly, Steve nodded. “Yeah,” he whispered. Then Bucky saw a flicker of steel in his eyes, and he lifted his chin just a little, saying, “Yeah. Do that.”

Bucky backed off, dragging his tongue over the calluses left by Steve’s art pencils. “Do what, Steve?” he asked innocently.

“God, Bucky,” Steve groaned. He slapped his free hand down on Bucky’s shoulder and gave a shove.

Laughing, Bucky took pity on Steve and went back down to the floor. He got Steve’s belt open and started on his fly, but his fingers went back to the age-worn leather. Most of Steve’s clothes were secondhand. The belt must’ve been his dad’s, it was so old, but Steve hadn’t let it get cracked or dried out. It was soft and flexible.

It would sting like hell if Steve hit someone with it, but it wouldn’t _hurt_. Not really.

Bucky licked his lips and looked up the length of Steve’s body, not sure if he should say something. That wasn’t how the game was played. But Bucky wanted to ask or at least _hint_...

With shaky hands, he dragged the belt out of the loops and dropped it aside. He got Steve’s pants open, and Steve planted his feet and lifted his hips so Bucky could work his pants down and toss them aside. Then he went right for Steve’s underwear, wanting to get things moving.

“Slow down,” Steve said, and his voice was a little steadier.

Bucky grinned and deliberately took hold of the waistband. “Tell me what you want, Steve.”

“I said,” Steve shot back, before he went red again, “like you did last night.”

“Kinda hard to do through your underwear. Or don’t you want my mouth on your dick?”

Steve visibly squirmed, but he didn’t give in. He _never_ gave in. “Yeah, I do,” he said. “Only I don’t want you to rush. Take it slow.”

“Make me.”

Steve’s eyes narrowed, and for a second, Bucky thought he might’ve pushed Steve too far. But then Steve just said, “Go upstairs and get me a tie, then.”

“Your belt’s right there,” Bucky hinted with a cocky grin that disappeared as soon as the words were out. God, he’d said it. _He’d said it_.

Terrified to see Steve’s reaction, he ducked his head to kiss Steve’s leg, hiding his face. God, why the _hell_ did he just run his mouth like that, as if he didn’t have a lick of common sense? What kind of sick bastard was he, wanting Steve to _hit_ him? He took a breath, trying to think of how to explain and make this all right again, but Steve moved.

He picked up the belt.

Bucky froze, staring up-close at the fine blond hairs on Steve’s leg. Shivers crawled over his bare, exposed back. His heart lodged in his throat. When Steve touched the back of his head, he jumped.

Steve’s fingers wound tight in Bucky’s hair. Roughly, Steve tugged Bucky’s head off his leg, then released his hold. Bucky looked up, desperate to apologize. Steve’s eyes were hard, and he had his bottom lip between his teeth.

“Up,” he said, tapping Bucky’s chin with one finger. When he took his hand away, he picked up the end of the belt and pulled it straight.

Too nervous to say a word, Bucky knelt up a little higher and lifted his head. Instead of meeting his eyes, Steve looked down at the belt. He lifted it up over Bucky’s head, and Bucky flinched when the soft leather brushed against his nape.

With careful, deliberate movements, Steve pulled the belt through the buckle, all the way past the holes Steve had added to fit his waist, until the buckle was pressed to Bucky’s throat, cool against his skin. Steve looped the other end around his fist a couple of times. Then he gave a pull that stole Bucky’s air and shattered his fear.

“I said, slow.”

Bucky swallowed against the belt. He looked up at Steve, at the leather stretched taut between his neck and Steve’s hand, and while this wasn’t what he’d meant, this was better. So much better. Steve let out just enough slack for Bucky to lean back down and press his lips to Steve’s leg, and Steve’s other hand found the back of Bucky’s head. He combed his fingers through Bucky’s hair, and the gentle touch was somehow more devastating because of the belt around Bucky’s throat.

Shivering, Bucky kissed and licked, slowly, just like Steve wanted — because the only thing Bucky wanted right then was to do _whatever_ Steve wanted, as if the belt gave Bucky the freedom to obey without question.

 

~~~

 

Somewhere on the other side of the exhilaration and lust and love, a part of Steve was terrified. He knew he wouldn’t be able to sleep tonight. That he’d spend the night shaking or cursing or crying into his pillow, because he had _no idea_ what he was doing. All he knew was that he was risking the only friendship that had ever mattered to him.

But it was like being on a roller-coaster, and scared as he was, he was loving the thrill just as much, like some darkness inside him was feeding on Bucky’s compliance. And Bucky didn’t fight back. He’d given himself completely to anything Steve wanted, and that more than anything kept Steve’s hand on the belt, giving him the strength to pull on the leather and tell Bucky _harder_ and _like that_ and _don’t stop_.

And if last night, the feel of Bucky’s mouth had been breathtaking, tonight it was absolutely _glorious_. There was nothing tentative or hesitant about what he did. He touched with his hands, teasing over Steve’s thighs and balls and even down behind them, where a gentle press lit sparks behind Steve’s closed eyelids, and he took Steve’s dick so deep into his mouth that Steve was worried he wouldn’t be able to breathe.

This time, when Steve felt the heat building, balls drawing up tight, air going still in his lungs, he didn’t pull Bucky away. He let the belt go slack and tried not to pull Bucky’s head down — tried not to thrust up into his mouth, but he might have anyway, because he’d never even _imagined_ anything feeling so good.

And Bucky... God, Bucky _kept_ his mouth there, kept working his tongue and pressing and touching, until Steve was so oversensitive that it was almost too much. Steve’s chest burned, and his heart rate spiked in fear that he was having an asthma attack.

It was Bucky’s kiss — soft and gentle, warm lips pressed to the inside of his thigh — that helped him drag in a deep breath. He coughed, feeling limp and boneless, tingling from scalp to toes, and forced himself to sit up. Somehow, he’d managed to keep hold of the belt, though his fingers were almost numb, and he gave a little tug to get Bucky’s attention.

“God, Bucky...” he whispered when Bucky looked up at him with soft, unfocused eyes, face flushed. Steve leaned down and pulled Bucky into a kiss without thinking, and for a second the taste nearly made him recoil, before he realized that Bucky hadn’t. Bucky had let Steve — Steve had — _in his mouth_.

He fisted his hands in Bucky’s hair and held him in the kiss, trying to capture that taste, of Bucky’s mouth and himself combined, so he could lock it away in his memory forever. Bucky was a hot, heavy weight on Steve’s body, almost too heavy for Steve to breathe, and Steve pulled him closer, tighter, wishing he could wrap himself in Bucky and stay there, safe and loved.

The kiss broke when they were both breathless. Bucky rested his forehead against Steve’s. The end of the belt hung between them, tickling against Steve’s ribs.

“Bucky,” Steve said again as he touched the belt.

Bucky lifted his head and met Steve’s eyes. “Yeah, Steve?” he asked, his voice as soft as his kisses had been.

Steve wanted to say it. He wanted the three words that everyone said men shouldn’t say to each other, especially not after doing what they shouldn’t do with each other. Steve had never been afraid, and he wasn’t now, exactly — not of saying it, anyway. But Bucky... One day, Bucky would find just the right dame, and he’d want to be with her. And selfishly, Steve didn’t want to drive Bucky away even one _minute_ before she came into Bucky’s life to take Steve’s place.

So instead, he pulled on the belt and watched Bucky’s eyes close. “Lie back,” Steve said, giving Bucky a shove off to the side. “I’m gonna do that to you now.”

Bucky’s eyes fluttered open. “You don’t have to.”

Steve’s grin was just a little forced. He gave another pull, this one sharper, silencing Bucky’s startled gasp. “I got that, Buck. But this says I can do anything I want, right?”

Bucky swallowed. He didn’t argue. He just nodded, staring at Steve with something like awe in his eyes.

“Then lie back,” Steve ordered, giving Bucky another shove, “because I want to.”


	4. Chapter 4

**Thursday, November 4, 1943**

_Sergeant Barnes. Three two five five seven._

Bucky walked a few more steps, driven by the cadence of words in his head, before he realized Steve had stopped. Turning to look back made Bucky dizzy, and thank God everyone behind them was slowing or sitting in the mud, exhausted, because Bucky went down, dropping to his knees and one hand. With his other hand, he cradled a rifle to his chest, though he didn’t know whose rifle it was or where he’d gotten it. He just knew he _couldn’t drop it_.

He wasn’t cold.

He was shivering, but he wasn’t cold, even though his shirt was open halfway down his chest and the air around him felt like ice.

_Sergeant Barnes. Three two five five seven._

Bucky twisted around to get his legs out from under himself. His issued boots had never fit right, but now they were worse. One lace was cut, and the boot only stayed on his foot because it was too tight. They both were. He was going to have blisters. Blisters were bad. He remembered a medic saying that —

“Hey.”

Bucky looked up from his foot and smiled, though the expression felt like his face was going to crack into pieces. “Did —” He coughed and looked away, trying to reconcile his Steve with _this_ Steve. Looking at _this_ Steve too long was like staring into the sun.

Steve took Bucky’s free hand and wiped off the worst of the mud, then pushed a canteen against his palm. Bucky drank, irrationally hoping it was bourbon. It was water. At least it helped wet his throat.

“Did we see —” Bucky said, struggling to get the words out. “Did we see some fucking Kraut rip off his own face?”

“Yeah.”

Bucky nodded. “And you,” he said, darting another glance at Steve. He was wrapped up in a brown leather jacket that covered the most God-awful... “The hell you wearing, Steve?”

Steve looked down, and he might have been a foot taller and a hundred fifty pounds heavier, but damn if he didn’t blush just like he used to. “It’s — It’s a costume. I’m with the USO, sorta.”

A hysterical laugh broke free from somewhere deep inside Bucky’s chest. This wasn’t real. This _couldn’t_ be real.

_Sergeant Barnes. Three two five five seven._

This wasn’t real, but it was better than what _else_ they’d done, taking out his blood and replacing it with liquid fire, shocking him with electricity until he cracked his teeth and pissed himself, cutting into his body just to watch the wounds close up.

He leaned against Steve, thinking that he liked Steve better when he’d been smaller, but this new Steve was pretty good, too —

Except _this_ Steve jerked away, and the only reason Bucky didn’t fall over was that Steve put a hand on his shoulder. A friendly, impersonal hand.

“Careful there, Buck. You okay?”

“Are you —” Bucky snapped his mouth shut and looked back at the river of mud that used to be a road. There were a couple hundred other prisoners staggered all the way back out of sight. Bucky thought he recognized some of them, but he couldn’t remember. He couldn’t remember a lot of things.

“Bucky?”

He turned back to _not-quite_ -Steve and nodded. “Yeah. I’m good.”

Steve nodded and squeezed his shoulder. Then he got up and started wandering back, past a black tank that looked like something out of a robot movie. He had a _shield_ over his back, for Christ’s sake. A _shield_. Painted like the American flag.

Bucky tried to laugh, but it wouldn’t come out. Instead, he just sat in the dirt and finished off the water, wondering if they’d let him die any time soon.

 

~~~

 

Steve felt a little dizzy every time he looked _down_ at Bucky, because Bucky was supposed to be taller. Even after the last five months of getting used to this new body of his, he’d still expected that Bucky would be... well, _Bucky_. Larger-than-life, always with a ready smile. Now, though, it was like watching a half-dead stranger.

According to the other POWs, they’d been held captive for about three weeks. Three weeks wasn’t enough to break Bucky’s spirit like this... was it?

All Steve wanted was to pull Bucky into his arms, hold him close, get him to safety and _protect_ him, but he couldn’t. Not here, in front of men who’d cheered him and followed him out of hell, who’d listened to him when he yelled at them for falling down in exhaustion and got them back on their feet and moving again. All he could do was keep watch and make sure Bucky wasn’t one of the ones who fell down.

He didn’t, though, and that was a little strange, because the other men had said Bucky had been beaten until he’d collapsed. And when Steve had found him... Steve shivered, remembering Bucky’s mindless repetition of his rank and serial number. But he’d recognized Steve. He’d let Steve drag him along until he got his footing back, and then he’d run with Steve. Fought with him. And he’d refused to leave, even when the whole damned factory blew, and for a little while, it was like it always had been: Steve and Bucky together against the world.

Now, though, the adrenaline rush had worn off, leaving Bucky as dead-eyed as the rest of the men, and Steve _couldn’t_ risk showing him any more favor than he already had. After everything Bucky had been through, he didn’t need to be court martialed or dishonorably discharged for being queer.

“It was a doctor,” Steve explained, walking a careful foot away from Bucky — far enough to not be suspicious, close enough to catch him if he fell.

“A doctor?” Bucky looked Steve over skeptically. “What kinda doctor?”

“I dunno,” Steve admitted. “His name was Dr. Erskine.”

Bucky flinched away from Steve, hands tightening on his rifle. “What?”

“Abraham Erskine,” Steve said, watching Bucky carefully, wondering if it was the name. It sounded Jewish, but Bucky had never been prejudiced like that before. Or maybe it was because Dr. Erskine had been German?

A muscle in Bucky’s jaw went tight, twitching under his skin. Some of the shell-shocked, hunted look faded from his eyes, but what replaced it was even more unfamiliar. It was cold. Dangerous.

“Howard Stark helped,” Steve continued when Bucky said nothing. “He was a little more successful than he was with that flying car at the World Expo. Remember that?”

Bucky’s lip curled up, but it didn’t come close to being a smile. “The last time you walked out on a date.”

“Yeah.” Steve shrugged guiltily. He’d disappeared that night. With no family to call, and knowing Bucky would be shipped out the next day, he’d just... gone with Dr. Erskine. Then he was in Camp Lehigh, and he’d been too tired to do anything more than collapse into his bunk every night. He’d never written Bucky a single letter. And then, he’d changed, and he’d been sent on the road with the USO, and how could he _possibly_ write to Bucky — a soldier, a _hero_ — that his own great part in the war was to be... How had Agent Carter put it? A dancing monkey.

He tugged his jacket closed over the bright silver star on his chest. Now he wished he hadn’t worn the uniform at all, but he hadn’t wanted to stop and change.

“So a doctor made you into a chorus girl.”

“Well... sort of?” Steve ventured with a tentative smile. “But I’m done with that now, Buck. I proved I can do something _good_.” He put a hand on Bucky’s shoulder, and to hell with what anyone else thought, seeing them. They’d been best friends most of their lives.

Bucky shot him a strange look. Had he ever frowned like that, back home? Steve didn’t think so. It made him feel a little sick inside, wondering what they’d done to him in that factory.

“You’re really _real_?” Bucky asked.

“I’m the same Steve you always knew. Just... more of me, I guess.”

Bucky shifted his rifle and rubbed a hand across his face. His knuckles were bloody, but Steve couldn’t see any cuts or abrasions. “See you say that, but the Steve I knew wasn’t the type of guy to wear... _that_. Not unless you’re thinking of doing drag shows, pal.”

Steve laughed. “Captain America.”

Bucky stopped — not because he was dead on his feet, but so he could stare at Steve. Behind them, the ragged line of freed POWs kept moving, carried along by sheer momentum. “Captain _what?_ ”

Steve shrugged, ducking his head — a new habit he’d picked up, as if his brain were trying to make himself small again, the way he’d been all his life. “Captain America. That’s the, uh, tour name,” he explained, privately swearing he’d flatten anyone who even _hinted_ at singing _Star Spangled Man_ for Bucky.

“Fucking Christ, Steve,” Bucky said, then let out a laugh that was finally, thank God, something like his old self.

Steve grinned. “It grows on you.”

“Like hell, it does,” Bucky said, almost gasping for air, he was laughing so hard. And when he finally straightened out, still grinning, he looked at Steve the way he used to, before the war, with his eyes full of everything they’d never put into words for each other.

And just like back then, Steve wanted to say it. Steve wanted nothing more than to reach out and touch Bucky and say everything he was thinking and feeling.

But he couldn’t.

So he smiled, and he lied through that smile, thinking about Bucky’s military career. And slowly, Bucky’s smile faded into something distant and friendly, but colder than the wind coming down off the Alps.

“Yeah,” Bucky finally said, taking a deep breath. Then he started walking again, and said over his shoulder, “Okay. Come on, Cap. Better get moving.”

 

~~~

 

After they got back to camp, after the cheers, after the girl — and God, what a fucking _perfect_ dame she was... After the medics and the questions and a meal that Bucky didn’t taste because he wasn’t sure he could even hold it down...

 _After_ , Bucky went to the edge of the camp, where he lit a smoke and held it cupped in his hands to hide the light. He’d never smoked before, but now he didn’t even cough. The heat from the cigarette hurt without burning, without even making his palm red.

He was still wearing his filthy shirt. No jacket. He smoked two more cigarettes, lighting each from the end of the last, and he didn’t cough. Didn’t get sick to his stomach.

This probably wasn’t real, he decided. Though it was a damned sight better than it had been before.

The Black guy from Bucky’s old cell — Gabe Jones, he thought — came over just about when Bucky was holding the stub of a cigarette over his palm, wondering if he’d feel the burn if he ground out the end against his skin. Bucky dropped the butt and stepped on it. He hadn’t changed his boots.

“Hey, Barnes,” Jones said, giving the air a knowing sniff. “Got another?”

Bucky took the crumpled pack and offered it to him. “Need a light?”

“I’m good.” Jones had a lighter. “You hear the news?”

Bucky shook his head. “You getting shipped back to your regiment?”

“London. All of us.” Jones’ grin had a sharp edge to it. “They got questions for us.”

Questions. Bucky had only been over here for six months — that he remembered, anyway — but he knew everyone had questions and no fucking answers. Not for some nobody sergeant in a regiment that probably didn’t even exist anymore.

“You really grow up with Rogers?”

Bucky looked at Jones, surprised. To everyone else, Steve was _the Captain_ , maybe _Cap_ , but not Steve Rogers. It was like he was a title and a costume, not a person. Then again, maybe he wasn’t, now. He’d been remade in a lab.

 _Dr. Erskine,_ Bucky thought, and a shiver went through him. Why did he know that name?

“Yeah,” he said, taking out another cigarette. Jones lit it for him, and Bucky nodded his thanks. “Back when he was a skinny little nothing. Before” — _Dr. Erskine_ — “they fixed him up.”

“Good guy?” Jones asked, giving Bucky a direct, assessing look.

Bucky nodded. Even if Steve had pulled away from him — even if none of this was really _real_ — Steve would always be the best man there’d ever been. A far better one than Bucky.

“The best.”

Jones nodded, looking out into the night. “I figured.”

They smoked in silence, hiding their cigarettes and staring out into the woods. Bucky watched the sentries pacing to keep awake, and it was only once he finished his fourth cigarette ever that he realized he shouldn’t have been able to see that far in the dark.

A little shiver went through him.

“You eat dinner, Barnes?”

Bucky shook his head.

Jones put a hand on his shoulder and jerked his head back towards the camp. “Come on. Let’s find you a jacket, too. You gotta be freezing.”

“Yeah,” Bucky lied, looking at his hands. He remembered blood and cuts and burns, but his skin was healed. Not even a scar. “Guess I must be in shock.”

“Better than bein’ in a cage,” Jones said, turning Bucky around. “I’ll take in shock and behind friendly lines any day.”

Bucky thought about that as they walked. He thought about not being cold and not being hurt and Steve being taller and bigger and _only_ his friend. He thought about everything that had been done to him after he’d been beaten into unconsciousness.

 _Sergeant Barnes. Three two five five seven_.

He took a deep breath and nodded to Jones. This was real, he decided. It had to be real. Because he’d take Steve, even as a distant friend, over being alone any day. “So, there’s one thing you oughta know about Steve.”

“What’s that?”

Bucky grinned at Jones. “He’s shit at poker.”

Jones’ eyes lit up. “I think we oughta tell the other guys, don’t you?”

“I most definitely do.”


	5. Chapter 5

**Monday, June 4, 1945**

“What is that screaming, Comrade Colonel?”

“The man who can’t die.”

 

~~~

 

**Thursday, January 10, 1963**

“What have you for us today?”

“A demonstration, Comrade Colonel. The Asset will prove an instinctive knowledge of weaponry through the introduction of an unfamiliar weapon. We have a new Dragunov sniper rifle, not yet in production.”

The colonel looked through the two-way mirror. “Isn’t this Asset a bit... crude, for a sniper? For almost twenty years, he’s been... more like a bomb than a bullet.”

“True, Comrade Colonel, but that does not have to be the case,” the scientist said reassuringly. “He does not have to be as destructive as a bomb. He is an excellent marksman.”

The colonel grunted. “I can’t wait to see your proof,” he said dryly.

“You won’t be disappointed, Comrade Colonel. Something to drink, while we wait for the others?”

The Asset in question was a man in only the loosest sense of the word. He stared blankly ahead through a curtain of filthy, tangled hair. He was naked but showed no sign of noticing the cold. His left arm and shoulder had been replaced with a powerful metal prosthetic bearing the Red Star. The rest of his body was equally powerful, thick with muscles. He was a weapon, both mindless and single-minded.

He was secured to his metal chair with electromagnetic cuffs around his ankles, his waist, and his throat. His forearms were clamped to the arms of the chair with thick metal sleeves that covered him from elbows to wrists.

His breathing was shallow and controlled. Other than the steady rise and fall of his chest, he didn’t move as the minutes passed, stretching into nearly an hour until the others had all arrived for the demonstration.

Finally, when they were all assembled, the scientist pressed a button and leaned over to speak into a microphone. “Give him the weapon.”

A heavy _clunk_ echoed through the facility. Off to one side of the little room, a thick steel door swung open. A young soldier entered, carrying a matte black rifle cradled in his arms. When the door closed heavily behind him, he flinched. He darted a nervous look at the Asset, then slid the rifle onto the floor at the Asset’s feet before quickly stepping back out of the way. As soon as the door opened, the soldier escaped.

The door closed, locks engaging.

The Asset tilted his head down as much as the metal around his throat would permit. He looked the weapon over, from muzzle to stock. Then he lifted his head once more and stared at the mirror.

“Freeing his bonds,” the scientist warned, a tight edge creeping into his voice. He pressed another button. The band around the Asset’s neck swung open. A third press, and the sleeves holding the Asset’s forearm to the chair spread. The left arm gleamed, as if its metallic surface had been freshly polished. The right arm was reddish-purple with abrasions and deep bruises.

The Asset didn’t move.

“Pick up the weapon,” the scientist ordered into the microphone.

The Asset mumbled something.

The scientist threw a nervous glance at the distinguished military onlookers. “I order you to pick up the weapon!”

Another low, mumbled growl.

“Speak up! I can’t —”

“The weapon,” the Asset said, biting out the words as if he hated the very act of speaking, “will not fire.”

The scientist laughed anxiously. “I order —”

“You’re an idiot,” the ranking general declared gruffly. “He knows it isn’t loaded. Give him a magazine.”

The scientist shot him a nervous look. “Comrade General, that may not be wise.”

“He’s under absolute control, is he not?” the general asked, fixing the scientist with a glare.

“Y-yes, Comrade —”

“Then give him a magazine.”

The scientist scurried out of the room, and the military officers exchanged significant looks. They were all of the opinion that the Asset was a weapon, and weapons were to be under military control, not in the hands of the K.G.B.

Soon, the scientist returned, and they all watched the soldier re-enter the room, now carrying a curved, matte black magazine. He put it down on the floor and slid it over to the Asset.

The Asset looked down, then back up. “The weapon will not fire,” he repeated, lips curled back from his teeth.

The General’s fists clenched. “Is it — It’s unloaded, you fucking idiot,” he scolded the scientist. “Is your Asset a soldier or an ugly trained monkey?”

“Comrade —”

The General put a hand on his sidearm. “Ammunition. _Now_ ,” he ordered, and the other men in the room grinned at the scientist’s discomfort. “And get the right caliber!” the General shouted after the scientist, much to the amusement of the his colleagues.

Idiot civilians.

As the scientist went to secure the proper ammunition — assuming there even was any — the soldiers discussed how they could use the Asset. They were divided between vivisecting the Asset to determine how to recreate him and turning him loose in America. Rumor had it that the Asset had once been an American, after all. Once cleaned up, surely he could blend in as a proper sleeper agent, only under _their_ control. They could break free of the K.G.B.’s stranglehold on intelligence.

When the door opened for a third time — just enough, they noted, for a hand to reach in and slide a box of ammunition over — they settled down to watch.

Finally, the Asset moved. He leaned down, bare feet splayed on the floor for balance, since his ankles were still locked to the chair legs. He picked up the ammunition and magazine, then began loading the rounds.

“His arm,” one of the colonels said thoughtfully. “Wasn’t it bleeding?”

They all looked more closely. The scientist, perhaps wanting to be helpful, ordered, “Stop.”

In an impressive display of obedience, the Asset stopped so abruptly that a bullet, not quite pushed home, bounced free. It clinked when it hit the concrete floor, and it rolled out of sight.

“Show us your right forearm.”

The Asset held up his right forearm, just below eye-level. The skin was filthy, flecked with dried blood, but there were no bruises. No open wounds.

At a nod from the General, the scientist ordered, “Continue.” The Asset resumed loading the magazine, while the soldiers fell into a soft discussion of the research they could perform. Perhaps there was some healing agent in the Asset’s blood, one of them theorized. They could harness the Asset for that alone, harvesting blood for battlefield transfusions.

Their discussion became more animated, stopping abruptly when the Asset slapped the magazine into the rifle. Holding the rifle in his metal hand, he ran his other hand over the mechanisms. He chambered a round and lifted the rifle, turning his head to look through the scope, presenting his profile to the two-way glass.

Eager to participate in the discussion, the scientist said, “As you see, Comrades, there is no hesitation at all. If you would care to move to the firing range, we can demonstrate the Asset’s —”

With a sharp, deafeningly loud _crack_ , his forehead exploded. Blood and bone and brain matter splattered.

Two more sharp _cracks_. Two more bodies dropped.

The fourth body fell at the door, hampering the last man’s escape. He started to duck, but the Asset, firing blind through the shattered glass, put a bullet into his ear.

 

~~~

 

**Monday, October 5, 1964**

The cryofreezer was thick steel surrounded by liquefied gas dewars and a nest of pipes and hoses. There were five separate backup systems layered in place to provide coolant and power to the cryofreezer. No one was taking a chance that one would run out and prematurely begin the thawing process.

“The conditioning process success rate is below eighty-two percent. I want it above ninety-five before the end of the winter.”

“That could damage the Asset.”

“It’s of no use to us like this.” A hand swiped at the small glass window. “If it fails, we can stop bleeding money into this project.”

“Yes, Comrade. We’ll begin at once.”

 

~~~

 

**Tuesday, February 2, 1965**

Over the screaming, the scientist shouted, “It was merely a matter of the power, Comrade! It’s miraculous how quickly the body heals the damage caused by the current! One-tenth of this electrical power would kill another man!”

“Wipe all memory completely, and then have it sent to me for retraining.”

“Where, Comrade?”

“The Red Room.”


	6. Chapter 6

**Tuesday, December 31, 2013**

“You look wonderful,” Pepper said, fussing over Steve’s bow tie.

Tony let out a displeased huff. “He should’ve worn the suit.”

Pepper and Steve both winced at that. “You look wonderful,” Pepper repeated, though Steve knew it was a jab at Tony.

“Thanks,” Steve said, looking down at himself. Black tuxedo, white shirt, black bow tie. Pepper said it was classic. Tony declared it horrendously boring. Pepper and Natasha ganged up on Tony, who shut up once he had a drink in his hand.

“You’re on in five,” Natasha warned.

Pepper got up on her toes and kissed Steve’s cheek, then rubbed at his skin until the smell of lipstick went away. “You’ll be fine. Just smile.”

He gave his old stage smile and watched Natasha and Pepper herd Tony out of the office they’d co-opted for their use. Steve’s street clothes — comfortable jeans, a hoodie, a leather jacket, and boots — were folded on the desk next to an outbox full of papers and files. The walls were plastered with posters for Smithsonian exhibits. Prominently featured in the center was a replica of an old USO tour poster. Steve stared up at himself, and his smile faded.

Maybe things didn’t change after all. Steve was still America’s prize show dog.

He didn’t need Dr. Erskine’s serum to hear the fanfare that echoed out through the Smithsonian’s hallowed halls. It felt garish to do this — a New Year’s Eve ball, opening his own exhibit — but he owed it to the others. He was the last of the Howling Commandos, and he’d be damned before letting their names be forgotten.

He walked out into the hallway, down to the temporary security doors, and then out into the bright lights. Pepper had said something about minimizing press presence, but Steve was almost blinded by flashes and video camera lights. He grinned and waved into the glare, pretending like he could see everyone. The music was deafening, but it finally wound down, and Steve’s eyes adjusted enough that he could get to the podium set up in front of a shadowy, unlit display.

After a moment of panic, he found the cue cards Pepper had shoved into his pocket at the last minute. Naturally, they weren’t in order. “Sorry, sorry. Let me just...” He didn’t drop the cards, but it was a close call.

Thank God the crowd apparently loved him, because his fumbling got a good laugh from them, even the press. One of the morning talk shows had once called him a sweet, bumbling golden retriever when he wasn’t in battle. He was still getting stuffed toy dogs in his fan mail.

Finally he got the cards sorted and smiled at the crowd again. “I’m going to keep this brief, because this isn’t about me. This is about a team of men who risked everything — who sacrificed everything — to take down our worst enemy. They weren’t super-soldiers, but they were heroes, every one of them.”

He looked off to the side, where one of the museum employees stood, holding a phone that she swore she could use to control the lights. Steve had charmed her into doing this for him, and he’d make damned sure she didn’t get in trouble with her bosses for it.

“It’s because of these men — not me — that we’re here today. Timothy Dugan, who went by Dum Dum, formerly of the 69th Infantry Regiment,” Steve said, and the a smoked glass wall lit up with Dum Dum’s face and biography. “Gabriel Jones, from the 92nd. Jim Morita, also from the 69th. James Falsworth, from the 3rd Independent Parachute Brigade, United Kingdom. Jacques Dernier, from the French Resistance.” As he listed each name, the corresponding display lit up.

Steve swallowed past the lump in his throat and turned to the last display. He’d looked at it for almost an hour before getting dressed, as if he could somehow inure himself to seeing a face that haunted his dreams. “And Sergeant James Buchanan Barnes of the 107th. First to join the Howling Commandos, and the only Howling Commando to give his life in service, on October 29, 1944. He —” Steve had to stop and blink a couple of times, staring down at his cards. “Bucky died protecting me.”

The crowd went silent, except for the soft _click-click-click_ of cameras. Irrationally, Steve remembered something about those noises being artificial now, instead of the actual sound of shutters and flash bulbs. He started to crush the cue cards, but he caught himself. Instead, he shoved them into his pocket and looked back at the crowd with the best smile he could muster, which wasn’t very good.

“All this is for them,” he said, squaring his shoulders. He was the only one left. It was up to him to do their memory proud. “Ladies and gentlemen, the Howling Commandos.”

 

~~~

 

Steve had ordered the Commando displays lit up for two reasons: First, this really should have been their night, their exhibit, not his alone. And second, he knew he’d need an escape plan. The light and shadow converged just right between Morita’s and Dernier’s displays, leaving Steve a triangular patch of pitch blackness where he could hide from the crowd.

“Nice speech,” Natasha said, appearing at Steve’s elbow out of nowhere.

He gave her a faint smile. “I was supposed to be hiding, you know.”

“Very convincing.” She lifted her hand, offering him a glass of champagne. The sleeve of her dress slipped back, revealing the prototype laser bracelet she’d lately started wearing.

He took the glass and nodded at the bracelet. “You expecting trouble?”

“The CEO of Stark Industries, a genius weapons designer, four S.H.I.E.L.D. executives, nine Congressmen, three ambassadors, a princess of the British Royal Family, and Captain America in one room?”

“Point taken,” Steve acknowledged, wondering if maybe he should’ve worn the uniform after all — or at least the shield. He was pretty good with his fists, but he didn’t even have a knife on him, much less a gun. “Weren’t you in charge of security, though?”

Natasha gave him that smile that always made him expect to see fangs. “Walk with me, Cap,” she said, sashaying out of the darkness. She did that, Steve had learned; she used sensuality to distract people from just how deadly she was. Steve had stopped falling for that act the day she’d faced the Hulk and survived.

He followed her out into the crowd, wondering if he should offer her his arm. He’d been very careful not to be associated too closely with anyone, especially where the press might see. Maybe he’d date one day, but not any time soon. It had been seventy years for most people, but Steve’s grief was too fresh — both for Bucky’s death and for Peggy, who wasn’t even well enough to be here.

Steve was alone, but he thought that maybe that was how it should be. He _deserved_ to be alone. Bucky had died without ever knowing how much Steve loved him, and though he told Peggy every single time he visited her, she never remembered. What kind of man was he to let the two most important people in the world die without them ever really knowing how much they meant to him?

Natasha stopped without warning. “You two were close.”

Steve didn’t have to look up to know where they’d stopped. He made himself look up at the picture of Bucky. It had been taken late in the war, back when Bucky had mostly stopped smiling.

“Yeah.”

Natasha’s voice went soft, almost too soft for Steve to hear. “Were you in love with him?”

Steve almost cracked the glass in his hand. He finished off the champagne without tasting it so he wouldn’t end up wearing it. “I — thought you knew about me and Peggy. Agent Carter. I mean, it wasn’t —”

“Steve.”

He glanced back at Natasha, who stared up at him. He looked back down at the empty glass and gave a hesitant little nod. “Yeah.”

She nodded, and thank God she was good at reading people, because she let it drop. “Go mingle, before people start talking about us.”

“Yes, ma’am,” he said wryly, turning away from Bucky’s memorial display. He headed into the crowd, and only looked back once.

Natasha was still there, staring up at Bucky’s picture, making Steve wonder what she was thinking.

It wasn’t until almost an hour later, after hors d'oeuvres and more pictures and some awkward dancing, that Steve realized exactly what he’d confessed to her.

Wonderful. She’d spent the last two years trying to set him up with every eligible woman she knew. Now she’d probably try setting him up with eligible men, too.

 

~~~

 

As the guest of honor, Steve had to stay until the official end of the gala at two. Even Dr. Erskine’s serum could only do so much against the way Steve’s shoes pinched at his feet, and at the rate his metabolism burned, the hors d'oeuvres and snacks had left him half-starved.

There had to be restaurants open on New Year’s Eve. Wasn’t Waffle House open year-round, even on holidays? The nearest one was a good thirty miles south, but the drive wouldn’t be too bad. His stomach growled at the thought of waffles, hash browns, eggs over easy, and good, strong coffee.

He looked around, wondering if he could sneak out early, but before he could map an escape route, Tony intercepted him. “Hey, Cap.”

Steve smiled a little warily, wondering how much Tony had been drinking. “Happy New Year, Tony.”

That got him a grin and a friendly arm around his waist. Steve couldn’t help the way he tensed up, but Tony either didn’t notice or didn’t care. Probably the latter. Tony was a hell of a lot more observant about people than he let on; he just didn’t give a damn what they thought about him.

A second later, Tony proved that by saying, “So, you and Barnes, huh?”

Steve jerked away, heart pounding. He stared at Tony, fighting the urge to punch that cocky smirk right off his face.

“Hey, no worries,” Tony said, grinning even wider now as he held up one hand; no surprise, he had a drink in the other. “It’s a new millennium, big guy. That sort of thing is fashionable. I can get you a spread in _Out_ magazine, if you want.”

The sounds of the party faded out under the blood rushing through Steve’s ears. He’d always been hot-tempered, but this was pure, grief-fuelled rage that had him seeing red.

“You want to do this?” Steve growled. He made it one step before Natasha was there, hands resting lightly on his chest. The touch caught him by surprise, and he looked down, though not before he saw Pepper sweep out of nowhere to push Tony back.

“Easy, Cap,” Natasha warned.

Steve let out a breath and forced himself to turn away, only to find himself facing Bucky’s portrait again. The hard look in Bucky’s eyes — the lack of his cocky grin — hit Steve like a punch in the gut.

He needed out.

He went for the nearest exit. Natasha stuck with him and ducked under his arm, snuggling close to his side. He tensed up, ready to pull away if she tried to stop him, but she just laughed and locked one hand around his wrist to keep his arm around her shoulders.

Then they were past security, through the doors, and in the comforting, empty darkness of a deserted hall. Yellow emergency lights cast a sickly glow on half-seen exhibits, and red exit signs added an eerie, horror movie feel. Natasha slipped away and ducked down to take off her heels.

“Stark’s an asshole,” she said. Steve had the feeling that she was saying it so that he wouldn’t have to.

“I should go back in there.”

“After a clean escape?” She shook her head and started down the hallway, moving silently in her stockings. “Go get changed and disappear for a while, Cap. I’ll cover you.”

Gratefully, Steve summoned up a genuine smile and said, “Thanks.”

“And Steve?”

“Yeah?”

She touched his arm and smiled sadly. “Happy New Year.”

“You, too, Natasha.” He turned away and went to change out of the tux, trying not to think of all the New Year’s parties in his future — parties he’d attend without the only two people he’d ever loved.

 

~~~

 

**Wednesday, January 1, 2014**

Dawn found Steve at the National Mall, running through the cold morning air at top speed as if he could outrun his past. He pushed himself hard, harder than usual, as if daring his body to betray him now the way it had all through his childhood. He ran until he couldn’t see Bucky’s stoic face or hear Peggy’s weak voice, until he knew nothing but the slap of his feet on the pavement and the icy air cutting into his lungs and the rush of blood through his muscles. He ran faster, harder, and he stopped only when he was too exhausted to continue.

Breathing hard, he forced himself to keep walking. The cold air didn’t really affect him, but he shivered when the wind cut through his sweatshirt. Every time his thoughts inched back towards Peggy or Bucky, he made himself look around and concentrate on his surroundings. He turned it into one of Natasha’s awareness exercises, assessing each passing jogger for threats, searching for concealed weapons, looking for good ambush spots or sniper nests.

It helped.

Maybe he should do this more often. Every day, in fact. Getting out in the air was probably better for him than destroying punching bags at the gym. He needed to stop living like a recluse, submerging himself in S.H.I.E.L.D. missions and training. Hell, maybe he should try to make friends with people outside the office — or inside it, for that matter.

He’d think about it. For now, just being outside was enough.

 

~~~

 

**Wednesday, March 12, 2014**

A couple months later, after one too many missions that left Steve questioning everything, Steve sat down at a diner with his occasional running partner, Sam Wilson. In a world where Steve was either some fragile relic of the past, meant to be sheltered from modern innovation, or held up like the hero he really wasn’t, Sam was a breath of fresh air. He and Natasha were the only two people who treated Steve like a _person_. Like Bucky did, back when Steve really had been too fragile for his own good.

But where Natasha was loyal and competent, she had her secrets. Talking to her wasn’t the easiest thing in the world — not when Steve found himself trying to find hidden meanings in her words. Sam, though... He was everything that Steve was supposed to be: honorable and kind and good.

If Steve ever decided to retire, he thought Sam would make a damned good Captain America in his place.

“It’s like, everything I had is just gone,” Steve said, using a fry to blur the edge of the ketchup puddled to one side of his plate. “The Howling Commandos — Bucky. And my girl, Peggy... She’s still here, but she doesn’t even remember me from one visit to the next.”

“Yeah?” Sam asked softly.

Steve nodded. “She got married, you know. She had this whole life, while I was in the ice. They all did. All except for Bucky.”

“He died in the War, didn’t he?”

Steve pushed the fry hard enough to snap it in half. “Yeah. Right in front of me. I couldn’t save him.”

“Just like Riley.”

Sam’s wingman. Steve flinched and looked up, only then realizing how selfish he’d been.

Sam looked back at him, but there was no accusation in his sharp, intelligent eyes. Only understanding. “Chili cheese fries,” he said, and gave his plate a shove across the table. “Go on, man. Take one.”

Steve had barely touched his burger and fries. Sam’s plate — a mass of fries covered with meat, beans, sauce, onions, and cheese — was half-empty. Baffled, Steve picked up his fork —

“No, no,” Sam scolded. “Use your fingers. Half the fun is making a mess.”

“If you say so.” Steve found the clean end of one fry, but it was glued to three more by the cheese. He ended up having to scoop the fries into his mouth and eat them in one bite to keep from wearing them.

Sam laughed, and his damned grin was infectious. Steve couldn’t help but smile back, and he licked a finger clean before he realized what he was doing. It took two napkins to clean up the rest of his hand, and Sam laughed at him the whole time.

“See? Now, that’s what I mean,” Sam said, reclaiming his plate.

“What’s that?”

“I asked you what makes you happy, and you think I’m talking about big, heavy, life-changing stuff.” Sam shook his head. “You gotta start small. Chili cheese fries. Maybe a milkshake. Good music. A place you go to sit and look at the view.”

Steve looked back down at his burger. It was the same burger he’d ordered countless different restaurants and diners since waking up in this new world. Sure, sometimes it tasted better or worse, but it was generally the same.

“I like running,” he finally said, a little bit questioningly.

“Mr. On Your Left,” Sam scoffed, gathering up a few fries. He was practiced at eating them without risk of dropping any of the chili.

Steve smiled. “Yeah. Shame a distinguished vet like you can’t keep up with an old man like me,” he teased, and reached across the table.

Eyes sharp, Sam smacked his hand away from the fries. “You’re gonna be like that, you get your own fries.”

Steve knew a challenge when he heard one. He turned and signaled the waitress who’d been casting admiring glances their way.. When she came over, Steve said, “Since my pal here’s not ready to share, can I get some chili cheese fries?”

Sam kicked Steve under the table. “And?”

“And...” Steve picked up the little dessert menu by the salt and pepper shakers. He flipped through, realizing he’d never bothered to look through one of these menus before. A little overwhelmed, he finally asked, “How’s the chocolate chip cookie milkshake?”

“It’ll put ten pounds on anyone who’s not you,” the waitress said with a little sigh.

“Yeah, he’ll take one,” Sam said, grinning over at Steve. “Little things, right?”

Laughing, Steve turned to the waitress. “I’d say he’s right, but he’s got this ego problem.”

“But you still want the milkshake, right?” she asked.

“Yes, ma’am.”


	7. Chapter 7

**Saturday, May 17, 2014**

Steve stood over Fury’s grave, though all he saw was a different patch of empty earth and a different gravestone, this one small and white, weather-softened and fading. Empty earth. Bucky’s grave.

When Steve had gone to Arlington National Cemetery, he hadn’t brought flowers, because Bucky wasn’t like that. Standing over that grave, Steve had imagined Bucky asking, _“What am I, pal? A dame? I don’t want flowers.”_

And now, he knew. Bucky was alive.

Sam cut into Steve’s thoughts, softly asking, “So?”

Steve shook his head, dragging his thoughts back to the present. He looked down at the file in his hand. It was old, with spots of damp that had made the ink bleed. Cyrillic writing. “Can you read Russian?”

“You ask this _after_ she leaves?” Sam scolded, looking after Natasha just a little wistfully. “Shit. Gonna start calling you Captain Confused. Or maybe Captain Google Translate.”

Steve wanted to open the file, but he wanted to savor the moment even more. The world had turned to shit. HYDRA was back, S.H.I.E.L.D. was gone, Fury was in hiding, Natasha was a public figure, and Steve was in disgrace.

And he’d never felt so much like laughing, because _Bucky was alive_.

“You have Google on your phone?” Steve asked Sam, who gave him _the look_. Grinning, Steve said, “Okay, then. Chili fries, milkshakes, and secret Soviet files sound good?”

“Yup. Especially since you’re paying.”

“I am?”

“You’re the boss. It’s your job to keep me from starving.”

“Where did it say that in the paperwork?”

“Always read the fine print, Cap.”

 

~~~

 

There was a contingency plan. There was always a contingency plan.

In 1971, it had been a map grid leading to a particular hut on a muddy street. If the curtains were drawn, the safehouse had been compromised. They hadn’t been.

In 1984, it had been the fifth hotel in the yellow pages, with a room booked under the fifth name that started with “N” in the white pages.

Now, it was an IP address. Coordinates.

But the contingency plan wasn’t his. The safehouse at those coordinates wasn’t _safe_.

He thought he was clever. He removed his tracking device and got rid of the comms unit disguised as a smart phone. He got rid of the credit cards and changed out the cash through three different stores, making purchases at one and returning them at another, because money could be tracked via satellite. He avoided cameras at ATMs and red lights and banks —

_— report to the bank for reprogramming —_

_— wipe him and start over —_

He thought he’d been clever, using a library computer to find short-term apartment rentals, choosing one at random, paying in cash.

Now, he stared past two guns at a ghost.

“Natalia.” His aim was slightly below the horizontal. At this range, the bullet would form a perfect circle between her brows.

“Soldier,” she answered, her gun an inch away from his and off to the side. They could both pull their triggers, and each bullet would find its mark.

Interesting that they’d both drawn left-handed.

He took a deep breath, wondering what she saw. Certainly not the harmless, reclusive, civilian facade he’d projected for the sake of the others living in the building. More likely, she saw the soldier who’d trained and beaten and tortured her until every hint of softness had been stripped bare and ground razor-sharp.

“You didn’t kill me.”

She tipped her head. Pursed her lips questioningly. The harmlessness she projected was false, a trap for those who would underestimate her as ‘just a woman’. He knew better.

Still, he lowered his gun and holstered it at his back. He wore loose jeans and a flannel shirt, untucked, hiding the weapon. Because he was in what should have been the safety of his apartment, he’d left off the gloves that would hide his mismatched hands.

She watched in silence, and a part of him was proud of her — of the way she kept the gun steadily trained on him as he turned to the duffel bag that held the remnants of his kit. Beside the bag was a round shield, covered with paint that was chipped and scratched and peeling away from the pristine silvery metal.

A sharp toss sent his goggles skittering across the floor. The right lens was cracked from Natasha’s bullet.

“You missed,” he said.

Her eyebrow twitched up. “Did I?” she asked, holstering her gun under her right arm. Her leather jacket covered it perfectly.

He stared at her. He hadn’t expected that.

Curious, he sat down and gestured to the couch beside him. “Tell me.”

“I did it for Steve.”

Those were the first English words she’d ever said to him.

 

~~~

 

**Monday, June 23, 2014**

“Do I want to know how you’re” — Sam cut off long enough to sweep down into the camp, right out of the setting sun, and kick a sentry off his perch — “gonna get us out of here?”

“Says the man with wings,” Steve countered, not even a little out of breath from his run up the night side of what the locals called a hill. The sentry was the last one, leaving Steve a clear path over the fence.

“If you think I’m carrying your ass...” Sam threatened, though he was grinning when they met up a few seconds later, behind the bunker.

Steve rubbed his gloved hands together. His skin was already healing, but the barbed wire had torn his black gloves to shreds. He kept them on anyway. For this op, he was all in black, face painted, hair hidden under an uncomfortably hot knitted cap. Besides, he doubted he was authorized to wear the Stars and Stripes anymore. He and Sam had been AWOL for two months now.

After all this time together, they moved seamlessly, covering one another, clearing rooms and hallways without more than a quick hand gesture to coordinate. They killed as few of their enemies as possible, not out of mercy but because they needed to move quickly. An injured, unconscious guard would occupy two more to get him to safety; a dead man could be abandoned while the killers were pursued.

Steve’s old publicist would be horrified. Of course, he doubted his old publicist had ever seen war closer than his television screen.

Twenty-five minutes later, weighed down with all the documents and data they could find, they left the camp — Sam on his wings, Steve taking a roundabout path across dry ground, with more than a few jumps from one tree to another to confuse any guard dogs that might follow, once the incapacitated guards were discovered.

They rendezvoused eight miles away just long enough to stow Sam’s wings and change clothes. Steve scrubbed the charcoal and green makeup from his skin with a plastic-wrapped cloth that smelled... “Lavender? Really, Sam?”

“It’s French.” Sam grinned, barely visible in the light from the single flashlight, with a red lens cap. “You did the whole World War II thing. Don’t you like French stuff?”

Steve rolled his eyes and shoved the used wipe into an inside pocket of his backpack, where the smell wouldn’t be noticeable. “Girls, Sam. French _girls_. Doesn’t mean I want to _be_ one.”

“Yeah, you’re not pretty enough.” Sam hefted his own backpack into place. The wings fitted into a velcroed compartment under the pack, in case he needed to make an emergency escape. “Speaking of —”

“No, I haven’t heard from her. I’ll email her when we get back to town.” Steve looked down at himself. T-shirt, cargo shorts, hiking boots. “What do you think? Harmless?”

“Yeah, about as harmless as King Kong, with those muscles.” Sam picked up the flashlight and covered it with his hand before unsnapping the lens. He’d expose the white light a little at a time to let their eyes adjust. “You remember how to say ‘We got lost on your hiking trails with the crappy signs’ in Italian?”

Steve shrugged. “What makes you think I speak Italian?”

“Shit. Hopefully any forest rangers or soldiers we meet are either girls or gay, then.”

 

~~~

 

**Tuesday, June 24, 2014**

“It looks like they found something,” Natalia said from where she sat in the living room.

 _Natasha_.

She was Natasha now. He needed to remember that. Sometimes, he thought he did remember, but it always slipped away.

“... wonder if the Italians knew...”

He ran his hand over the textured wall. His metal hand. The pressure sensors in his fingertips told him every detail of the wall’s contour. Where there were seams between the sheets of drywall. Where there were nails going into studs. Where there were hollow places underneath.

American construction. Interior studs twenty-four to thirty-two inches on center, depending on the builder. Cheap paint, bought in bulk. Texturing to cover imperfect drywall joints. Caulking at the baseboards.

“You might have been kept there just a few years ago,” Natalia said.

There were three switches built into the wall, four feet off the floor. One controlled the ceiling fan; another, the light; the third, an outlet. He turned off the third switch and paced across the room.

“... records of any assassinations. Is any of this familiar? The Italian Alps?”

“Sergeant,” he said as he shoved the couch away. There it was: an upside-down electrical outlet, with nothing plugged into it. “Three two five five seven.”

“Sergeant James Barnes,” Natalia said. “Do you remember that?”

Not Natalia. He shook his head. She was _Natasha_. Why couldn’t he remember?

He used the tip of his knife to start loosening the tiny screw between the two receptacles. The front plate was thin plastic. It cracked under the pressure, and he pried the two halves away. Inside, there was a plastic box mounted to the side of a wall stud. The receptacle pair was screwed to the top and bottom of the box. More carefully, he loosened those screws.

“I’m going to have to send them to Russia,” Natalia said.

“No.” That was bad.

“I have to. We need —”

 _“No,”_ he ordered, twisting around to look at Natalia. She looked different, with straight red hair falling past her shoulders, but he knew her.

She stared at him, expression going soft. Compliant. She nodded and turned away.

Frowning, he went back to stripping the wires from the outlet. When he had the ends free, he wrapped them around his metal hand and pulled, slowly, steadily. He listened to popping clamps or staples in the wall.

Once he had two feet of slack, he got up and went back to the switch. He turned it on.

Natalia looked over at the _click_. Then she turned away again.

_Not Natalia. Natasha._

He couldn’t remember. When he couldn’t remember, he was supposed to return to his handlers, but he had no handlers. All he had was Natalia.

And then she was there in front of him, holding something cold and wet against his left temple. He almost pulled away, because it _hurt_ , but he wasn’t supposed to react to pain.

“Natasha?”

“With me again?” she asked, looking into his eyes.

He had to blink against the harsh light over the bathroom mirror. He was sitting on the floor, leaning against the bathtub, with Natasha crouching over him.

“I don’t know. What happened?”

“You electrocuted yourself.” She shifted what felt like a washcloth full of ice cubes, and a drop of cold water slithered down his face, down his neck, onto his bare chest. “Do you remember why?”

_He’d done what?_

He closed his eyes, remembering the breathing exercises she’d taught him — exercises he’d once taught her, or so she said. Relaxed body, calm mind. It sounded like bullshit to him, but he trusted her. He had to trust her. He had no one else.

“Programming,” he finally said. “Another layer of programming.”

“I thought so.” She leaned down to lift his metal hand to the washcloth. Once he was holding the ice against the burn, she stepped back and leaned against the counter. “Are you aware of it now?”

He laughed roughly, feeling useless. “How many is that? How many _more_ are there?”

“Does it matter?”

He sighed and opened his eyes to look up at her. “One at a time?” he ventured.

She smiled. “When you’re feeling better, I ordered dinner. Tomorrow, you can come with me to Home Depot. You have to repaint the wall.”

“What did I do to the wall?”

“There’s a six-foot scorch mark, and I’m not losing our security deposit.”

 

~~~

 

**Friday, July 4, 2014**

“We don’t have to do this,” Natasha said.

Bucky shook his head and pulled the car into a parking spot. It was close to the museum, not far back down the row, where it was less likely to be boxed in. His skin crawled, but he chose the parking spot a civilian would take — convenience over escape planning.

“I want to,” he insisted. He put the car in neutral, set the brake, then stared at his hands on the steering wheel. Metal gleamed in the mid-morning sun. His other hand was clean, nails neatly trimmed. No abrasions. His calluses had softened just enough that he no longer looked like he punched walls for fun.

Wordlessly, she reached down to the footwell, then handed him a blue sling, edged with grey webbing. The shoulder strap was padded, with velcro to adjust the length. He ducked his head under the strap and slipped his metal arm into the sling. Both ends were sewn closed, cupping his elbow and hiding his metal fingers. Combined with a long-sleeved dress shirt and casual slacks, it was the best summertime disguise they could think of.

He put on sunglasses and let her fuss over his hair. She hadn’t made him cut it, so it was just long enough to pull back from his face in what she called an ‘annoyingly hipster ponytail’. He was tempted to keep it long just to make her roll her eyes about it.

He couldn’t remember _ever_ being free to make decisions like that.

Together, they walked into the Smithsonian Air and Space Museum. It was the Fourth of July. Steve Rogers’ birthday.

“Looks like Tony’s people did well,” Natasha said, looking at the crowd gathered outside the hallway leading to the Captain America display room.

Bucky nodded, though it was automatic. He stared at a face that was both familiar and completely alien to him. His memory supplied him with information: Steve, growing up, a sickly little nothing. And then, the rescue in the Alps, with a Steve who was bigger, stronger, invincible.

He knew. He remembered everything. He _remembered_ his love and loyalty and need.

He just couldn’t feel any of it.

Together, they walked through the display. Bucky had been here once, after the battle that had given him the chance to escape. He’d memorized every word on every display. He’d listened to the dialog in every sound-bite and film strip. And his recovering memory had filled in the blanks. The smell of wood smoke and cheap wine liberated from abandoned French villages. The truly horrible sound of drunk soldiers singing in three different languages all at once. The feel of grit in his socks and gun oil on his hands. He remembered the shocks of adrenaline, the blend of fear and exhilaration every time he ran into battle with Steve, the way the world went still and calm as he looked through his scope at an enemy who didn’t know he’d be dead in seconds.

He _knew_ it all, and it meant nothing.

“This isn’t him,” he finally said, turning to Natasha. “All this isn’t him.”

She looked back at him with eyes that were too old, too wise. “Then who is he?”

He shook his head, turning back to the looping film of strangers laughing together: Steve, Bucky, all the others. “I don’t know.”

“Do you need to know?”

He could say no. He could walk away and disappear. Steve was dangerous. A liability. He couldn’t walk down the street without being recognized. The remnants of S.H.I.E.L.D. and HYDRA would be after him, and through him, they could find Bucky.

He could go anywhere on earth. He could make a new life for himself. He had valuable skills beyond simply killing. He and Natasha had discussed his options. Security work. Bodyguarding. Firearms and combat instruction.

“Yes,” he told her, staring at the image of two men who might have been in love with each other. He didn’t feel empty anymore, but he also didn’t feel whole.

She nodded and turned, leading him out of the exhibit. Once they were out in the main hall, she took a phone from her pocket. “Then I’ll tell him to come home.”


	8. Chapter 8

**Saturday, July 5, 2014**

“So, how is that in any way _subtle_?” Sam asked, tipping his head to stare over his sunglasses at the massive _A_ at the top of the skyscraper.

“For Tony? That’s subtle,” Steve said a bit grudgingly. He still wanted to deck Tony for the shit he’d pulled at the party six months ago. That was probably why Tony had offered them all a safe place to lay low for a while.

“Why the hell can’t I have the cash to be this damn subtle?” Sam groused as he and Steve started walking. They’d been up in Boston, ransacking the home of a HYDRA scientist, and though Natasha had offered to ‘suggest’ that Tony send a quinjet to pick them up, they preferred to at least pretend to be subtle. They’d driven a rental car to Westchester, then taken the train to Grand Central.

“If we have time, we’ll dig around, see if we can find the secret to Tony’s success,” Steve offered.

“Now you’re talking,” Sam approved, slapping Steve on the back.

The lobby of Avengers Tower was even more grandiose than the exterior of the building. Steve looked up at the three story atrium, complete with a fountain and two separate stands of trees, and he sighed. “I’m surprised he doesn’t have peacocks,” he muttered as he headed towards the distant reception desk.

“Robot peacocks. Stark doesn’t strike me as the sort of guy to have pets.”

“Oh, God,” Steve groaned. “Please don’t suggest that, Sam. He would.”

Sam burst out laughing, and he was still laughing when Steve gave their names at the reception desk. The security guard looked a little overawed, but thankfully not frightened or angry — both possibilities, given the bad press. He just pointed them to a bank of elevators and said, “First elevator on the right, marked private. The doors should open for you, no problem.”

A little wary now, Steve led the way to the first elevator on the right. There was no call button, but the doors slid open almost immediately. They stepped inside, and the doors closed before Steve realized there were no floor buttons.

“Good afternoon, Captain Rogers,” said a pleasant British voice from speakers somewhere overhead. Steve and Sam, fresh in from the field, both twitched for guns holstered at their backs, but there was no immediate threat to target. The voice continued, “Your companion must be Sam Wilson. Good afternoon, sir.”

“Uh, yeah. Hi,” Sam said, shooting Steve a questioning look. Steve shrugged.

“I am Jarvis, an advanced artificial intelligence. I run all systems at Avengers Tower. Should you require anything at all, simply speak my name.”

Sam looked incredulously at the elevator ceiling. “A computer. You’re a computer.”

“Yes, sir.”

Sam let out a low whistle. “Welcome to the Matrix, Neo.”

Steve frowned. “What?”

“Aw, don’t tell me...” Sam groaned. When Steve shook his head, Sam looked at the ceiling. “Uh, Jarvis?”

“Yes, sir?”

“Could you maybe make a note that Steve here has to watch _The Matrix_? Sequels optional.”

“I’ll make it available on Captain Rogers’ entertainment system.”

Sam grinned. “Thanks, Jarvis. And throw in any other movies you think Steve needs to see. This boy’s got a whole lot of catching up to do.”

“Sam, I really don’t think we’ll have that sort of time,” Steve warned, starting to feel more than a little jittery. His mission-oriented mindset had kept him calm even after Natasha’s phone call summoning them to New York, but now he was nervous. What was so important that she couldn’t tell him over a secure phone line?

He could handle anything, except hearing that Bucky was dead. Steve didn’t have it in him to mourn Bucky again.

Gently, Sam said, “Small things, Rogers. Remember?”

“There hasn’t been much time for that sort of thing lately.”

“That’s what makes it _more_ important.”

Steve nodded, taking the scolding for what it was, because he knew Sam was right. Whatever progress Steve had made earlier in the year had been almost completely undone in the hunt for information on the Winter Soldier. They’d traveled thousands of miles, crossing the Atlantic four times, and had never even gotten close to the Winter Soldier’s recent trail. And while they’d put together a lot of valuable intel, Steve had no idea if any of it would actually help when they found Bucky.

 _When,_ he reminded himself. Not if. _When_.

The elevator doors finally opened into a spacious living room with a gorgeous view of midtown Manhattan outside the floor-to-ceiling windows. A group of couches faced a wall-sized television screen. There was a long glass bar in the corner near double doors that led out to a balcony.

“Yeah, okay,” Sam said, stepping out of the elevator. “To hell with crappy hotels and safehouses, Rogers. We’re staying.”

Irritation almost made Steve snap at Sam, but he held back. He wanted to be out there, hunting for Bucky — not here, living like some sort of pampered pet. But he had to trust Natasha, so he followed Sam into the living room, hoping they could get this done quickly. Maybe they could get back on the road as early as tomorrow.

If necessary, Steve would go alone. Sam had earned a little R&R, after all.

Footsteps made them both turn. Natasha walked into sight from a hallway off to the side. She wore low, tight jeans and an oversized T-shirt from Disney World, and her feet were bare. Steve had never seen her looking so casual and relaxed before.

“Hey,” she said, and though her smile was subdued, her eyes lit up in a special way when she looked at Sam.

“Disney, huh?” he asked, grinning at her. “I figured you more for the exotic type. Monte Carlo or something.”

“I have a thing for mouse ears,” she said, deadpan.

Sam clutched at his chest.

Steve tried not to clench his jaw. “What’d you have to report?”

She gave him a look that he couldn’t read. “You want to put down your bags, clean up a little?”

“Natasha. Please.”

Natasha started walking towards them, saying, “I found him.”

Steve let out a breath. He should have felt relieved, but he was more nervous, not less. “Is he —”

“He’s alive. He knows himself.” Natasha stopped a few feet away, looking directly at Steve. He couldn’t read her face, but he could read her body language. She stood perfectly balanced, weight on the balls of her feet, as if expecting attack.

“And?” he pressed.

“The data you’ve provided over the last two months helped with his deprogramming.”

Steve’s last email to Natasha had been five days ago — the files that had led them up to Boston. He stared at her, anger burning its slow way up his body. “You deprogrammed him overnight?” he challenged.

She shook her head. “He’s been with me since May.”

Steve had always been hot-tempered, but he’d usually managed to control it, or at least challenge it. Now, he actually took a step towards her, hands clenching into fists.

“Hey. Easy, Cap,” Sam said, putting a hand on Steve’s arm.

Steve jerked free, never looking away from Natasha. “Two months?” he demanded. “You’ve had us running all over the world for _two months_ , looking for him.”

She stood her ground, looking up into his eyes. “Without that data, he would still be the Winter Soldier, or he’d be dead. He was programmed to return to HYDRA after his mission. And if he couldn’t return to HYDRA, he was programmed to self-destruct, by any means necessary.”

“To —” Steve snapped his mouth shut as the tower seemed to twist under his feet. _Programmed_. He’d seen it in the Winter Soldier’s dead eyes, just like he’d seen that programming fail, at the very end, when Bucky had stared down at him in horror at what he’d done. But... Bucky...

He felt Sam’s hand on his arm again, sliding up to grip his shoulder. “Take it slow, Steve. He’s alive, right? And he’s not gonna try to kill us?”

Not one to sugar-coat anything, Natasha said, “There’s a slight chance, but he and I both judge the risk to be minimal.”

“Okay. That’s good. Right, Steve?”

He swallowed, still trying to catch his breath. “Yeah.” Natasha had hidden Bucky from him for two months — left him with nightmares that they’d catch up too late and find Bucky dead — but...

But he wasn’t dead. He wasn’t the Winter Soldier, at least not completely.

“The risk —” He looked at Natasha, trying to keep the hostility out of his voice. “You talked to him about seeing me?”

She nodded, still calm and controlled. “He wants to see you. He asked me to call you home to meet with him.”

“Okay.” Steve’s anger vanished under a rush of something that might have been close to happiness. Elation, even. “Okay.”

“I need to know you can handle this, Steve,” Natasha said. “He knows everything he’s done. The more his programming broke down, the more he remembered. But some of those memories are like movies — a stranger’s thoughts and actions.”

“That’s — As long as he’s alive...” He looked from Natasha to Sam, and Sam’s grin made Steve grin right back. “He’s alive.”

Sam slapped his shoulder, saying, “I think you owe the lady a big ‘thank you’, don’t you?”

Flinching inside at how angry he’d been, he said, “Natasha —”

She shook her head, smiling at him. “Don’t keep him waiting, Cap.” She pointed back at the hallway, saying, “Third room on the right, next door to your room.”

He was moving before she finished talking. “Thanks,” he called back, struggling not to break into a run, though he lost the fight as soon as he was around the corner. He shrugged out of his pack, counting doors, and dropped his backpack outside a door with a miniature round shield glowing on a screen next to the handle.

At the next door, he stopped, hand raised to knock, but the door unlatched before he could touch it. Steve took a step back automatically as the door swung open.

Bucky stood there. His hair was longer, pulled back from his face in a short ponytail. Like Natasha, he wore jeans and a T-shirt that showed his metal left arm. Though they were presumably safe here in Avengers Tower, he had a Glock hanging low on his right hip, with a strap around his thigh to hold the holster in place if he had to run. The coiled tension about him was new, something he hadn’t had even during the War, but...

But it was _Bucky_.

Steve wanted to rush to him, to pull Bucky into his arms and never let him go, but he couldn’t. He stared and hung back as if terrified that Bucky would disappear at the first touch.

“Come on in,” Bucky finally said, stepping out of the way.

This felt wrong. It was too casual. After all these years, after all that had happened, Steve felt like there should be... something _more_. Walking into the room was so common, so unreal, he half-expected to wake up at any moment.

He barely glanced around, except to note what any other soldier would: the AR-15 on the desk, the knives on the nightstand next to the bed, the open bathroom door, folding doors that probably led to a closet, and windows. No other exits. No other threats.

Behind him, he heard the door close. When he looked back, he saw Bucky leaning against it, staring at him.

“Sorry about... what I did to you,” Bucky said softly.

Steve shook his head. “Forget it. I...” He swallowed again and tried to remember the words he’d rehearsed in his dreams and nightmares for so long. “I’m sorry —”

“Don’t,” Bucky interrupted. He pushed away from the door and walked towards Steve, not with his old swagger but with a killer’s grace. It was jarring to watch, but Steve couldn’t look away. Bucky stopped two feet away, looking Steve over slowly, as if memorizing him. “Fuck,” he finally said with a little laugh. “And here I thought my memory was playing tricks. You’re bigger than I thought.”

“You’ve said something like that before,” Steve said thoughtlessly, before realizing that reminding Bucky of Zola’s lab might not be the best idea.

But Bucky just nodded, looking up into Steve’s eyes. “When you saved me. That was the first time I saw you like this.”

Steve shrugged. “The old me would’ve had a hard time even carrying a gun, much less parachuting into an enemy encampment and — all that.”

“Maybe, maybe not. The old you did some pretty stupid things.” A hint of Bucky’s old smile appeared. “Do you still?”

“Usually, yeah.” Steve glanced around the room, thinking maybe they should’ve met in the living room. There was nowhere to sit except the desk or the bed. And in one way, it had been seventy years since he’d so much as touched anyone outside of a fight or a friendly handshake, in another, it had been two years since he and a couple of the USO chorus girls... and longer, since he and Bucky...

“Thanks for at least some of those stupid things. Natasha said we couldn’t have deprogrammed me without the intel you provided,” Bucky said, his voice horrifyingly matter-of-fact for such a grim turn of conversation.

“Yeah, uh...” Steve wanted to ask how Bucky was doing now, but he couldn’t force the words out just yet. He gestured to the safety of the desk chair instead, asking, “Mind if I sit?”

Bucky glanced at the chair. Then his eyes snapped to the rifle, and he quickly went to pick it up, as if afraid to let it get into Steve’s hands. “Sorry, go ahead,” he muttered, cradling the rifle close as he backed away. There was something sensual about how he ran his hands over the workings, fingers caressing the trigger guard, thumb dipping into the gaps on the rail cover.

But the sight tugged at Steve’s memory, even though he’d never seen Bucky with an AR-15. During the war, Bucky had carried all different machine guns and long range rifles...

That was it. The rescue. That first day, after escaping from the HYDRA factory. Bucky had hugged his confiscated rifle to his chest in exactly the same way. A good soldier never dropped his rifle, but it had been something more, as if the feel of the weapon had comforted Bucky.

Steve had actually been jealous of the rifle, especially since he _couldn’t_ offer Bucky that same comfort. Not in front of the men he’d rescued. And after, even when they’d been alone together, in tents or bombed out houses or the back of a broken-down truck, Steve had never touched Bucky in any way that had meaning.

“Buck...” Steve took a cautious step towards Bucky, hoping not to spook him into running — or shooting, since he had no doubt the rifle was loaded. But Bucky didn’t move. He let Steve come closer, staring into Steve’s eyes the whole time.

And Steve... had _no idea_ what to do. How were you supposed to greet your friend after you’d watched him die, only to nearly die at his hands seventy years later? There were no rules for this. Should Steve try to hug him around the rifle? Kiss him the way they once would have? Pat his shoulder? Which one? The one that was flesh and bone or metal? And _why_? What had happened to Bucky’s arm? What about the rest of him?

At nineteen, Steve’s courage had been limitless. His weak, broken body had betrayed him, but he’d never let that get in his way.

So why did he hesitate now?

“I’m... glad you’re okay,” he said weakly.

Bucky’s nod was a subtle, almost military acknowledgement of Steve’s words. Without reaching for Steve, Bucky twisted away and walked to the closet. He leaned the AR-15 against the wall, pushed open the doors, and took out —

“My shield?” Steve asked, surprised to see it. He’d thought it lost at the bottom of the Potomac.

“Natasha and I used it when I needed to focus. To help me remember,” Bucky explained, carrying the shield over to where Steve was still standing. “She said you wouldn’t need it on your missions.”

A tiny corner of Steve was irritated that Natasha was _still_ keeping secrets from him — secrets that could get someone killed on a mission — but mostly he was grateful. “Where’d you get it?”

“The river. I must’ve gone back for it, after pulling you out, but I don’t really remember.”

Warmth blossomed in Steve’s chest. He’d thought — he’d _hoped_ — that Bucky had been the one to get him out of the Potomac, but he’d never been sure. Now he _really_ wanted to kiss Bucky, but he didn’t want to put any sort of pressure on Bucky.

Instead, Steve smiled and shrugged, saying, “Hey, if it helped... Do you want to keep it?”

“I’m doing better now. Besides, it’s a part of you.” A hint of Bucky’s old smile peeked through as he pushed the shield into Steve’s hands. “It’s all that’s left of the outfit, huh?”

Steve took the shield and retreated to the desk. He pulled out the chair, leaned the shield against the side, and sat down. “I think I’m going to have to stay incognito for a long while. HY— Uh, the public —”

“You can say it,” Bucky said. He left the AR-15 against the wall and moved to sit on the edge of the bed. “HYDRA.”

Steve nodded. “HYDRA did a number on all of us in the PR department.”

Bucky’s lips twisted into a wry grimace. “Except me. SOP was to eliminate any images of me and my missions.”

“That’s why we couldn’t find anything. I thought it was impossible to scrub the whole internet, you know.”

“Not when you _run_ the internet.”

Steve laughed, bracing the shield as he turned the chair to face Bucky. “There goes my number one source of information on the modern world. Now I’ll have to ask Sam.”

“Natasha’s boyfriend?”

Startled, Steve asked, _“What?”_

Bucky’s eyebrow twitched up. “Maybe she hasn’t told him yet.” Steve laughed, and Bucky smiled again. “This is where you tell me Sam’s a good person. She deserves the best.”

“He is. I don’t know how I would’ve got through the last few months without him. He’s a counselor at the VA.”

“That must be where she learned it.” When Steve frowned questioningly, Bucky explained, “How to help me. I knew she had some —” He cut off, glancing away.

“Buck?”

He shook his head. “She said we could stay here. That you and Sam might, too.”

“As long as — I mean, yeah. It’s not like I have a job anymore.”

Bucky looked down at his hands. His hair fell over his face, and for a moment, Steve thought he saw a glimmer of the Winter Soldier in his eyes. “She thinks we broke through all the layers of programming, and it’s safe for me to spar with others. You. If you want?”

Steve was brave, not stupid. He felt a shiver of fear go through him at the thought of facing the Winter Soldier in combat. Surrendering to the Winter Soldier — to Bucky — had been the hardest thing Steve had ever done.

“Do you?” he asked.

Bucky shrugged, still looking away. “I know Natasha’s style too well for her to surprise me anymore. And I worry about hurting her.”

“But not me?”

Bucky met Steve’s eyes. “You were never fragile, Steve.”

“I used to have four enlistment forms stamped 4F that say you’re wrong.”

Bucky shrugged. “They didn’t know you like I did.”

Steve let out a breath and leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “How much do you remember? If you don’t want to talk about it —”

“It’s fine, Steve,” Bucky interrupted. “Not talking about it won’t make it go away.”

“What you did... That wasn’t you, Bucky. Even when we were fighting, I knew it wasn’t _you_. I believed you were in there, somewhere.”

Bucky smiled faintly. “Yeah, but the next time you throw a fucking fight, I’ll leave you to drown, you stupid asshole.”

“No, you won’t.”

“Try me,” Bucky challenged, sitting up from his slouch.

Steve’s breath caught at the sudden fire that blazed in Bucky’s eyes, stripping away seventy years and more, to when Bucky kept daring Steve to go one step further, and Steve kept doing it.

 _Kiss me,_ he thought, though he couldn’t say it.

And God, how had it been so _eas_ y for him to say when he’d been nineteen and skinny and ignored? Why couldn’t he force the words out now?

Slowly, that light in Bucky’s eyes dimmed to something more controlled. Less personal. He got up from the edge of the bed and nodded towards the door. “Sparring room’s one level down. May as well go now, so we’re not late for dinner.”

Steve picked up the shield, feeling like he’d already lost the match. “Yeah. Let me just drop this off.”

“Bring it,” Bucky said, an edge of the Winter Soldier in his voice. “You’ll need it. I won’t hold back.”


	9. Chapter 9

**Saturday, July 5, 2014**

Natasha had guessed that he was eighty percent James Barnes and twenty percent Winter Soldier, and that was the closest he’d get to being _himself_ again — whatever _himself_ meant. He wasn’t even sure which one he wanted to be. He didn’t want to be a mindless killing machine anymore, but parts of the Winter Soldier had been inside him long before HYDRA’s serum and the Red Room’s programming.

Back in Brooklyn, when scrawny little Steve Rogers had started a fight, had it really been Bucky who ended that fight, or had that been the Winter Soldier all along?

He couldn’t help but wonder if Tony Stark had suspected HYDRA’s involvement in S.H.I.E.L.D. Why else would the billionaire have turned a skyscraper into the perfect headquarters for the ragtag team that Bucky only really knew from target dossiers? Living quarters, entertainment rooms, an intel center, a medical facility, weapons research and development... and _this_ little slice of Heaven.

“My God,” Steve said as he followed Bucky into the foyer of the training room.

The room beyond the reinforced glass doors took up three-quarters of the level and stretched three stories high. It wasn’t an empty space, but one full of perches and choke points, cover and blind corners. There were ropes strung, taut and loose, between the high points and walls of different heights. Some of the obstacles were hollow, with ladders to climb up to sniper nests.

“Mmm hmm,” Bucky said, because something inside him had been purring since he’d first seen it late last night. He’d wanted to take on Natasha then and there, but she’d insisted on making him wait for Steve. He suspected an ulterior motive, but he didn’t care.

He went to pull open the doors, but the locks held fast. JARVIS’ voice rang out from speakers overhead, saying, “Live ammunition detected. Please disarm before entry.”

“Shit,” Bucky muttered, remembering something about that. He looked down at his Glock.

“I really don’t want to get shot,” Steve said in an apologetic tone.

“Again,” Bucky added, since Steve was apparently too delicate. Sure enough, Steve winced.

“The locker rooms are to your right, if you would like to change or store your weapons,” JARVIS said. “And the non-lethal armory is to your left.”

Bucky sighed and went right as he unholstered his gun. Banks of lockers, bathrooms in the back, no one else in sight... He went to the first open locker and shelved his Glock, his backup Derringer and Intertec, and the .357 revolver he carried the in back of his jeans.

Steve just stared, wide-eyed, at the armory that ended up taking up three shelves.

Hiding a grim smile, Bucky looked up at the ceiling. “JARVIS?”

“Sir?”

“What about knives?”

“Blunt weapons are available in the non-lethal armory, sir.”

“Come on,” Bucky interrupted, looking at Steve. “It’s _us_ , JARVIS. Override it.”

“My apologies, sir. You are not authorized —”

“Get authorization,” Bucky said tightly. He shot a look at Steve and demanded, “You don’t mind, do you?”

“Like I’m going to say yes where you can shoot me... twenty-five times before you have to reload?”

Something inside Bucky tingled, like an electric current sparking through his gut, at Steve’s at-a-glance knowledge of firearms. He’d gotten the count right, too, as if he’d known that Bucky would keep a round chambered without having to think about it.

No wonder why the ‘Bucky Barnes’ he used to be had fallen in love with Steve.

“Thought you had a chronic problem with stupid,” Bucky teased.

“Oh. You remember _that_ , huh?” Steve challenged, reaching back under his loose shirt. As Bucky had suspected, he’d been carrying, too. He reached past Bucky to put a Glock 26 on the shelf next to Bucky’s .357.

Seeing their weapons shelved together felt intimate. Bucky couldn’t help but wonder if a ‘normal’ person would feel that way. Probably not. It was probably just Steve being practical, lazy, or both.

“Captain Rogers, Sergeant Barnes,” JARVIS said, voice echoing and bouncing across the metal lockers. “Mr. Stark has authorized the override, on the condition that, and I’m afraid I must quote, ‘those two idiots clean up any damned blood on my floor. Tell them exactly that.’” Somehow, the computer managed to sound both professional and embarrassed.

Bucky smiled, thin and dangerous. “Got a knife, Steve?”

Steve shrugged. “Got my shield. That’s good enough.”

“Chronic stupid,” Bucky insisted, and went to go see what sort of non-lethal toys JARVIS had for them.

 

~~~

 

Chronic stupid was right.

Steve knew it before he stepped into the room. He knew it as Bucky disappeared into the sudden darkness. And he sure as hell knew it when, before he was prepared, a knife came hurtling out of the dark and slashed open his thigh, just deep enough to sting like hell.

“Now you’ve got one,” Bucky called, and _God,_ he was fast, because he was already far from where Steve thought he’d thrown the knife.

Adrenaline slammed into Steve’s veins. He snatched up the knife, ducked into his shield, and rolled into the nearest cover. He came up in a crouch and held still for one single heartbeat, ears straining for any hint of Bucky’s position.

Staying low, Steve ran for a nearby pillar, just in time; light burst at his back, throwing shadows all around him, as a flash grenade exploded where he’d been an instant before.

Breathing deep to get more oxygen into his lungs, Steve turned the knife and felt the wound on his thigh. It had already closed, so he wouldn’t leave a blood-trail. He didn’t doubt for a second that Bucky’s aim had been intentional: close enough to sting, shallow enough not to disable. Bucky wouldn’t want to end this game that quickly.

But Steve suspected it wasn’t Bucky that he was fighting. How much of the Winter Soldier was left in him? Natasha said they’d assessed the risk, which meant there _was_ a risk.

 _Right,_ Steve thought, folding the knife. He pocketed it and drew the heavy handgun he’d chosen: fourteen synthetic bullets that were supposedly less dangerous than rubber riot-control ammunition. Every instinct told him to holster the weapon, because he _couldn’t_ shoot his best friend —

Who had no such reservations.

A single shot rang out, a softer sound than the _crack_ of a normal bullet, and hit his left collarbone at a steep downward angle. His left arm went numb, though he managed to keep hold of the shield and knife as he ran, avoiding pools of light. He hooked the edge of his shield over a low-hanging rope and vaulted up, landing in a crouch atop a low pillar. Movement caught his eye — a shadow at the edge of the light — and he fired off a shot as he leaped for another pillar. He heard the _thud_ of impact, but no grunt of pain.

Naturally, the Winter Soldier wouldn’t give away his position for something as insignificant as the pain of a gunshot wound, even a non-lethal one.

A switch in Steve’s head flipped most of the way to tactical mode. He threw himself into the fight, trying to outthink his opponent, trying to close the distance and neutralize the Winter Soldier’s advantage as a trained sniper. Remembering how deftly the Winter Soldier had caught the shield, he managed to keep from throwing it. Remembering their close-quarters battle, fists against blades, he kept hold of the knife.

But mostly tactical wasn’t all the way there, and the Winter Soldier was holding _nothing_ back. Steve realized it too late, just as he chased the Winter Soldier into a maze of little twisting passages that almost ended with him impaling himself on a knife held low, where it would slip up under his ribs, into his liver. Steve’s boots skidded on the rough concrete flooring and he sucked in his gut, but the knife point sank in just a quarter inch.

It was the Winter Soldier who moved first, snatching his hand back just enough to flip the knife, holding the blade parallel to his forearm. He grabbed Steve’s throat with his metal arm and spun, flinging Steve into the wall. The air burst from Steve’s lungs in a gasp. He raised his shield just enough to get it trapped between their bodies. The Winter Soldier pressed so close that the edges of the shield cut into the underside of Steve’s jaw.

“You’re holding back,” the Winter Soldier growled.

“Bucky —”

“Do you want to get killed out there?” The Winter Soldier stepped back just enough to backhand Steve with his metal hand, a slap that cracked Steve’s jaw and made his ears ring. The world actually went fuzzy for a moment.

Dazed, Steve shook his head, trying to unscramble his thoughts. Instinct drove him to raise the gun at his side and pull the trigger; training told him the precise angle.

A hissed breath was the only hint of pain as the Winter Soldier went down, left leg buckling from the kneecap shot. Steve kicked off the wall and used his shield to drive the Winter Soldier against the other wall. The corridor was too narrow for them to end up sprawled on the ground, but that didn’t stop Steve from kicking at the Winter Soldier’s uninjured leg and throwing a punch that would’ve cost any other man his teeth.

The Winter Soldier twisted like a damned snake and clipped Steve’s ear. Fine gold hairs floated down, sliced clean through by the knife still held in the Winter Soldier’s right hand. Steve jerked his head, avoiding another cut, and slammed his shield down in three quick, sharp jabs that left the Winter Soldier gasping.

But the Winter Soldier wouldn’t stop. He couldn’t breathe, but he got a leg up and managed to roll Steve to the side. Another swipe with the knife held Steve back long enough for the Winter Soldier to get awkwardly up to his right knee. His left leg was extended to the side, blood pouring from the gunshot wound.

“That all you got, Steve?” the Winter Soldier asked in Bucky’s voice.

He wanted to tell Bucky to stop. To calm down. To remind him that this was just training — playful, even, or at least a game the two of them could play together. But this wasn’t Bucky and Steve anymore.

Silently, he got to his feet, and the Winter Soldier mirrored his movements. Steve rubbed at his broken jaw, feeling the sting of the healing fracture. The Winter Soldier shifted his weight, testing his left knee.

“Okay, then,” Steve said, and brought up the gun, finger squeezing the trigger as he moved.

The Winter Soldier slammed his hand down, diverting the shot an inch to the left of his hip. Steve punched his left arm across, bringing the shield right into that metal forearm, gouging a deep crease into the metal. Sparks flew, and the metal fist unclenched, leaving the fingers half-curled and unmoving.

Steve pulled his shield back, anticipating an attack from his left, but there was nothing predictable about the Winter Soldier. Instead of attacking, he leaped up, slapping his hands down onto Steve’s shoulders. One foot hit Steve’s shield and kicked off, and then the Winter Soldier was gone like a startled cat, disappearing into the darkness overhead.

 _How the hell?_ Steve wondered, even as he took off, looking for an escape from the twisting maze of little passages. He usually had much sharper battlefield awareness.

Up wasn’t an option for him — not without a boost like the one he’d unintentionally given his opponent. He _thought_ he remembered ascending a good twenty feet before getting caught up in this mess, which meant...

He stopped running, dropped the knife from his left hand, and clenched his fist on the shield’s grip. On the exhale, he dropped to one knee and slammed the shield down into the floor with all his strength. The vibranium absorbed the shock of the impact, turning it back on the concrete with the force of a jackhammer.

The floor collapsed for three feet in all directions. Steve fell, instinctively curling up on top of his shield. He landed hard and heavy at least twenty feet down. The noise of his fall thundered in his ears, and he scrambled to his feet, raising his shield on instinct alone, just in time to block three rapid-fire gunshots.

 _Same level,_ he thought. His opponent had unexpectedly abandoned the high ground. His mistake. Steve twisted out of the path of two more shots, kicked off a wall to build up speed, and did the unexpected.

He threw the shield.

The paint-chipped, silver edges gleamed like a Catherine wheel, catching the light in bright flashes. The force of the impact sent the Winter Soldier flying, with Steve just a yard behind the shield. The Winter Soldier staggered back, misfiring a shot that went wide, just as Steve tackled him. The shield fell to Steve’s right, but he didn’t grab for it. He caught the Winter Soldier’s right wrist, ignored the flailing blow from the metal hand, and crushed his forearm into the Winter Soldier’s throat.

“Enough?” he demanded, trying to remember when he’d last had the knife or if it was still in his pocket.

In answer, even with no leverage at all, the Winter Soldier arched his back. His hips came up off the concrete, and the next thing Steve knew, a boot kicked him in the face, and another one lodged under his jaw.

Natasha had done this to him once, and the memory of just how hard he’d hit the soft training mat made him try and twist away. Instead of cracking the back of his head into concrete, he rolled off the Winter Soldier, who twisted the other way.

“Natasha taught you that?” Steve gasped out as he scrambled to his feet.

The Winter Soldier was only marginally more graceful. He snatched the shield up and onto his metal arm. His hair had come loose and hung in front of his face just as it had the last time they’d fought.

“I taught her,” he said, taking two running steps before he jumped.

Natasha was the one person who could give Steve a workout. The Winter Soldier, with Natasha’s skills — _his_ skills — and the strength HYDRA had put into his muscles, damned near killed Steve when the kick landed, too fast for Steve to evade, in the dead center of his chest. He felt ribs crack, and he staggered back with barely the presence of mind to grab for the Winter Soldier while he was still off-balance.

This time, they went down in a heap, and just like on the helicarrier, Steve rolled onto his back and pulled the Winter Soldier across his chest. Steve got one arm around his body, one around his throat, legs locked around his, and he tensed every muscle in his body to try and stop the thrashing.

Slowly — torturously slowly — the Winter Soldier stopped fighting back. The shield slipped off his metal hand.

Steve relaxed trembling muscles and struggled to catch his breath. Every gasp sent knives into his lungs, and he hoped like hell that he wouldn’t end up needing a medic. As gently as he could, he eased Bucky onto the concrete —

And the bastard lashed out at Steve, smacking his head back down into the concrete. One lithe twist, and the Winter Soldier’s knee landed on Steve’s gut. The pain from his cracked ribs made him see stars.

“Anything else you want me to do to you?” the Winter Soldier asked, trapping Steve’s throat under his damaged metal hand.

Steve stared up at him. He _couldn’t_ have meant — He wouldn’t — _Would he?_

After a few seconds that snapped tense and sharp between them, the Winter Soldier pulled his right shoulder back and clenched his right hand into a fist. He moved, faster than Steve could see, and the pain that burst in Steve’s left temple faded into darkness.

 

~~~

 

Bucky could only imagine what he looked like, bloody and filthy with sweat and concrete dust. He re-armed, leaving Steve’s Glock on the locker shelf, though he was tempted to unload the rounds to teach Steve another lesson about trust and weapons.

Why this was so damned important, he had no idea.

He took the elevator up to the living room and limped over to the kitchen, where Natasha and Sam were engaging in their own form of combat. She had him backed against one of the counters with nothing more than her smile and one finger resting on the back of his hand.

Bucky wanted to grin, but at some point, Steve had punched him in the mouth, and smiling would’ve split his lip open again.

Natasha heard his approach, identified him, and ignored him. A few seconds later, Sam looked over her shoulder, and his eyes went wide.

“Oh, fuck,” Sam said, touching Natasha’s shoulder to move her out of the way. “What the hell happened to you?”

“Training.” Bucky opened the freezer before he remembered that he didn’t actually like the taste of vodka. Snarling at himself for the lapse, he closed the freezer and checked the fridge for a beer instead. “Natasha’s been working with Steve.”

“Someone had to prepare him for you to come back,” she said blandly. Too blandly.

“Say again?” Sam prompted as both men looked at her.

She shrugged casually. “New Year’s Eve, at the opening of the Smithsonian exhibit.” She looked right at Bucky and said, “I recognized you.”

“You thought HYDRA would send me after him,” Bucky guessed.

“Thought?”

Bucky nodded, took a beer from the fridge, and closed the door. “Knew.”

“Are you ever _not_ right?” Sam asked, giving her what Bucky thought was a fond smile.

“Not that I’ll admit,” she answered.

“Uh huh.” Sam turned to Bucky, asking, “So where’s Rogers? Showering?”

“Probably still unconscious,” Bucky answered, deliberately casual. He needed Sam to go away.

“Aw, shit.” Sam shot Natasha a worried look. Bucky knew what he was thinking. Maybe he even was right.

Natasha just arched her brows. “He’s a big boy. He can pick himself up without my help.”

“Damned superheroes,” Sam muttered. He leaned towards Natasha, just a little, as if he were about to kiss her cheek. Then he checked the motion and instead jogged towards the elevator.

As soon as the doors closed — before Natasha could say anything — Bucky asked her, “How do you know if you love someone?”

“There’s no easy answer to that.”

Bucky sighed. “I thought you’d say that.” He looked over at the elevator. “Tell Sam not to worry. I knew what I was doing.”

“Did you?”

Bucky’s mouth twisted into the parody of a smile. “There’s no easy answer to that.”


	10. Chapter 10

**Saturday, July 5, 2014**

Steve was still a little fuzzy on how he’d gone from the training room to his bedroom door. All he really remembered was flattening his hand over the shield icon beside the door so the computer could scan his hand-print. Then Sam helped him over to the bed, where he helped Steve sit down, sternly saying, “We’ve practically been living in each other’s shoes for the last couple of months, so you know what I’m going to say. I’ll leave it at that.”

Steve thought he remembered thanking Sam, though that might have been a dream.

The next thing he knew, the bedroom windows showed a night sky lit up with countless city lights, his headache had receded to a dull throbbing, and he was more than half-starved, thanks to his metabolism. But because he was also civilized, despite all outward evidence, he made himself go stand in the shower long enough to wash off the blood and grime and get the cement chips out of his hair.

What the _hell_ had that fight been about? It was nothing like their old boxing training, both before and after Dr. Erskine’s serum had changed Steve. No, this fight had been a raw, vicious continuation of their battle on the helicarrier.

Did Bucky... What? Did he have second thoughts about pulling Steve out of the river? No, Natasha had said Bucky _wanted_ Steve here. That this meet-up at Avengers Tower had been Bucky’s idea.

Or had Bucky hoped to end the fight differently? Had he wanted Steve to win? To take some sort of retribution for just how badly Bucky — no, _the Winter Soldier_ — had hurt him?

Steve shivered despite the hot water surrounding him. If Bucky was looking for some sort of penance, he was barking up the wrong tree. _Bucky_ had done nothing wrong. The responsibility lay solely with HYDRA and the others who’d turned a good man into their weapon.

He got out of the shower and changed into clothes he found in the closet. He must have left them at Stark Tower during the aftermath of the Battle of New York. Life had been so much simpler then. S.H.I.E.L.D. were the good guys, the bad guys were aliens and whatever Loki was... But not really. In retrospect, Steve should’ve known back then, when he’d found HYDRA weapons technology on the helicarrier.

How many lives could he have saved if he’d just pushed a little harder? Investigated a little deeper?

That thought did nothing to help cheer him up. He dragged himself out into the living room and was relieved to find it empty. Hopefully Sam and Natasha were out on a date, having fun. And Bucky... Maybe he was with them or out with a girl of his own. He’d made his disappointment in Steve painfully clear.

Feeling like an intruder, Steve poked around in the kitchen and finally found a can of chili in the back of one of the cupboards. That gave him a faint smile, remembering Sam’s words about finding happiness in little things. There was a bag of frozen fries lurking in the bottom of the freezer, half-hidden behind a staggering array of ice cream pints. Cheese... A dozen different kinds, some of which looked extremely suspicious. The cheddar looked the most like what they’d used at the diner, so he pulled it out of the fridge and went to find a grater.

 _Little things,_ he told himself, reading the instructions on the back of the bag of fries. In fact, maybe the fries could be a peace offering. He’d make enough for two, then see if he could go find Bucky.

 

~~~

 

Forty-five minutes later, he had two plates of something that vaguely resembled what he and Sam used to get at their favorite diner back in DC. He eyed the plates skeptically, wondering where he’d gone wrong. Then he thought maybe he should’ve put the fries into a serving dish instead. Would Bucky feel pressured to stay and have dinner with Steve, even if he didn’t want to?

And what was he supposed to do now? Go knock on Bucky’s door? Bring him a plate on a tray?

He was overthinking this. He left both plates on the counter, covered to keep the food warm, and went back to their sleeping quarters. But when he reached Bucky’s door, he froze, second-guessing himself again. Maybe he should’ve asked Jarvis to relay a message —

The _click_ of the door latch startled him. Bucky stared out at him, right hand resting casually on the butt of his Glock. His hair was loose around his face, the ends damp, and there was no sign at all that he and Steve had been in battle just a few hours before.

Despite the guarded look in his blue eyes, Steve wanted nothing more than to pull him close and kiss him until they both forgot the last seventy-odd years had ever happened.

It was Bucky who broke the silence first, asking, “You okay, Steve?”

Steve managed a smile. “Yeah. I, uh, made dinner, if you want some.”

The ice in Bucky’s eyes thawed a little. “Sure,” he agreed, sounding surprised by the offer.

Relieved, Steve retreated before he could put his foot in his mouth. Bucky followed him to the kitchen, walking so quietly that Steve had to glance back a couple of times to make sure he was still there.

As Steve uncovered the plates, Bucky opened the fridge. Remembering the movie Sam wanted him to watch, Steve said, “Sam asked the computer —” and then cut off. The computer said something about sending the movie to Steve’s room.

“The AI, Jarvis?” Bucky asked, taking out two beers.

Steve nodded, a little thrown by hearing Bucky talk so casually about a computer that ran a whole building. “Yeah. Something about a movie — _The Matrix?_ Maybe if we can get the big TV over there working, do you want to watch it?”

Bucky’s mouth twitched up at one corner, and Steve’s breath caught, because _that was Bucky_. That was the smile he always used when Steve started running his mouth like an idiot, usually on one of their awful double dates. Their girls always stared like Steve had two heads, but Bucky acted like he thought it was funny or something.

“We can probably manage.” Bucky exchanged one beer for a plate and walked towards the living room, saying, “Jarvis? A little help here?”

As the computer made the arrangements, Steve leaned against the counter, mentally kicking himself. What was he, fourteen and on his first date ever, with... what was her name? Carol’s sister? They lived three houses down from Bucky —

“Steve?” Bucky called. “You’re not scrawny enough to need help carrying your plate, you know.”

Steve laughed, and the knots in his chest eased. “At least I cooked,” he called back, picking up his plate and beer.

He found Bucky sitting in the middle of the huge, curved couch that faced the TV. He’d dragged over a coffee table, and Steve stared at the empty part of the table, second-guessing himself all over again. Was that an invitation to sit with him? Was Bucky being practical or polite? Steve didn’t want to crowd Bucky, especially not if there was any lingering... awkwardness after their sparring.

Bucky was no help. He looked up at Steve in silence, and he only looked away when the TV flickered to life. Steve let out his breath and finally sat down near the far end of the table — close enough to share, far enough away that he wouldn’t be in Bucky’s personal space. When the lights dimmed and then went dark, he slouched over his plate in relief and picked at his fries, though his appetite was gone.

 

~~~

 

The movie made no sense — not that Bucky expected any different. He and Natasha had tried to catch him up to popular culture, but they could rarely stick with a show for more than fifteen minutes before they both wanted to shoot the television. They’d finally settled on two shows: NCIS because of the unorthodox dynamics and how the team made it work, and old Roadrunner cartoons that they’d analyze, trying to fix the Coyote’s traps.

But because this movie was full of jarring effects and combat impossible even for him and Steve, Bucky stopped paying attention to the TV and focused entirely on Steve. He sat to Bucky’s left, and the sensors in Bucky’s arm told him, to the millimeter, exactly how far away Steve was. He could hear Steve’s heartbeat, count his breath, feel his body temperature. Steve was tense, sitting rigidly in an uncomfortable slouch that only an idiot would believe was comfortable. He had his hands crossed in his lap, fingers locked tight as if to keep from fidgeting.

This was new.

Bucky’s memories were full of Steve. The belligerent set of his jaw when he challenged someone twice his size, simply because he knew he was right. The way his breathing would quicken as he walked into an alley, hoping he’d manage to throw one decent punch before he ended up broken and bleeding. The stoic refusal to get upset when another dame would ignore him on a double date.

The memories filtered through Bucky’s mind, playing behind his eyes like disconnected snapshots, deeply important but lacking the meaning to give them color. Bucky _knew_ Steve had suffered for his principles, his body, even his artistic talent, but that knowledge was still intellectual. Distant.

Even the memories that he knew were ‘private’ — the feel of Steve’s body, the taste of his mouth, the heat of his skin — were one step removed. The only difference was, he wouldn’t have minded exploring those more closely. Much more closely.

But _that_ wouldn’t happen, he knew. Steve had made that clear long ago.

Not that Bucky wasn’t tempted to try anyway. There were periods in his memory, few and far between, when he’d been allowed to go for months without a memory wipe, and he’d formed very basic relationships with the people around him. Twice, he’d even been permitted to have something of a ‘normal’ life as part of a mission that required infiltration to get him close to his target. He knew how to seduce someone.

And the desire was there, a physical interest that crept slowly into his awareness, divorced of the emotional attachment that he knew had once brought him and Steve together.

Sex didn’t require emotional closeness, though. A mental checklist flickered through Bucky’s mind: nighttime, couch, movie, solitude... They probably should have had wine instead of beer, but Bucky didn’t particularly like wine, and he suspected Steve shared his tastes. In fact, Bucky’s untrustworthy memory confirmed he and Steve had _a lot_ of preferences in common.

And that presented a slight problem. Because according to Bucky’s memory, _Steve_ had always been the one to initiate, when it was the two of them. But with women, Bucky had apparently done his fair share of seduction. That would have to do.

He moved closer, minimizing the gap between their bodies to a couple of inches. Physiologically, Steve responded at once, though he made no outward show of acknowledgement. Experimentally, Bucky moved his hand so his fingertips rested low on Steve’s back. Sensors lit up, informing Bucky of the texture of Steve’s shirt, the heat of his muscles, the hardness of his spine. He remembered similar sensations transmitted through his skin and bones, not metal and circuits, and what his sensors couldn’t provide, memory did.

Steve didn’t pull away, but he also didn’t move any closer — not until Bucky slid his hand all the way up to the collar of Steve’s T-shirt. Then Steve turned, quietly asking, “Bucky?”

The Winter Soldier’s instinct was to remain silent. Bucky’s memory told him otherwise.

“Yeah, Steve?” he asked, turning so his knee touched Steve’s leg, bridging the space between them. Something else was building between them — not the violent, electric arc of battle, like lightning jumping between two points. It was more like a haze of power, charged and humming, just waiting for a spark to ignite the whole world.

It stole Bucky’s breath like nothing else had for seventy years.

Steve’s gaze dropped, skimming over Bucky’s body, then back up, skittering to a halt at Bucky’s mouth. And when Steve licked his lips, Bucky knew exactly what to do next.

Steve’s lips tasted of chili cheese fries and beer, and under that, Bucky caught a hint of stinging blood from where Steve had been worrying his bottom lip between his teeth for the entire movie. Bucky licked at Steve’s lip twice: first because he liked the taste a little too much, and second because he wanted Steve to do that to him. He wanted nothing more in the world than to feel, viscerally and completely, everything that he’d once felt so effortlessly.

He felt the slow, pulsing rhythm in his blood and bones, buried too deep for even HYDRA to erase, as if _Steve_ had been hardwired into Bucky’s brain alongside involuntary muscle movements, like his breathing and his beating heart. Steve would lean back in a sprawl that was both cocky and nervously tense, and he’d tell Bucky exactly what he wanted...

Except, Steve didn’t. His hands went to Bucky’s face, and though he returned the kiss in a way that Bucky’s mission-trained mind identified as enthusiastic, something was missing.

At the slightest shift of Steve’s muscles, Bucky gave in, allowing Steve to pull them both against the back of the couch. It was awkward and uncomfortable, introducing a little shock of dissonance into Bucky’s mind.

“Bucky,” Steve whispered as he got one hand into Bucky’s hair. He combed the strands back until his fingers hit a knot Bucky hadn’t bothered to untangle.

The sharp tug on Bucky’s scalp made him freeze. Memory hadn’t prepared him for _this_ — the way that insignificant little sting shot through his whole body.

_More, more, more._

But instead of giving a harder pull, Steve eased up on Bucky’s hair. “Sorry, sorry,” he said, backing out of the kiss to work his fingers free.

_What?_

Training told Bucky to retreat. Reevaluate the situation. Revise his plan. But Bucky was more than a programmed killing machine. He forced himself to stay where he was. Steve’s frown was familiar, a vertical line etched between his brows. And Bucky’s need to ease that frown went far deeper than all the layers of HYDRA’s training.

When their eyes finally met, Bucky asked, “What do you want, Steve?”

But instead of actually _telling_ him, Steve jerked away, wide-eyed. “What?”

Bucky pulled his hands back, telling himself to stop assessing their surroundings for weapons. Steve wasn’t an enemy. _This_ was a... a misunderstanding.

_Retreat. Reevaluate. Revise._

Again, Bucky asked, “What —”

“No,” Steve cut in, sliding away. “You don’t have to do this, Buck.”

Anger was dangerous for Bucky. Anger was too close to the state the Winter Soldier had lived in. He took a deep breath to calm himself, though that was a poor substitute for the fire that had burned under his skin just seconds ago. Another breath, and another, and Steve was just... _watching_ him. Not touching. Not commanding.

Not _wanting_.

The rejection stung like poison, searing away the last of the building desire. Still, Bucky tried one last time to explain what _he_ wanted, for once, even though everything he remembered told him that wasn’t how _this_ worked between them.

“I don’t _have to_ do anything,” Bucky said evenly. That had been Natasha’s most important lesson: that _no one_ could control him anymore unless he allowed it.

And before Bucky could say anything more, Steve gave him a distant, encouraging smile, and said, “Right. Exactly.”

The words hit Bucky like knives. Like bullets.

This was 1943 all over again, the last time Steve had pushed him away.

Bucky got up and stepped back, putting more distance between them. He’d started this, so it was on him to apologize, but... _No._ He couldn’t. He _wouldn’t_ apologize for wanting Steve, not even for the sake of being polite.

Instead, he turned his back on Steve and left the living room. Natasha’s room was across from Bucky’s. He knocked on her door with his right hand, thinking if he used his left, he might well put a hole in the solid wood.

Just seconds later, she opened the door, wrapped in a bedsheet that left her bare shoulders and arms exposed. Behind her, Bucky glimpsed Sam fumbling to hide under the bedspread.

As pleased as Bucky was that Natasha had finally gotten what she’d wanted, he had to fight against the jealousy that threatened to flare up into rage. Natasha and Sam were happy, and Bucky and Steve...

“I’m going out,” Bucky told Natasha, lapsing into Russian.

Her only reaction was the slightest flicker in her eyes. “Thanks for letting me know.”

Bucky knew she wanted to ask, just as he knew she wouldn’t. And he didn’t even know where to start. Instead, he turned and went to unlock his door so he could get his boots, his gun, his jacket, and his wallet — everything he needed to safely go for a walk, or to just disappear for good this time.

 

~~~

 

Steve sank back against the couch, wondering if he could have _possibly_ screwed things up any worse than he apparently had. Six hours they’d been together. _Six hours_. And how many times had Steve managed to push Bucky away? Too many.

Well, he needed to do _something_. He looked around for the TV remote control, but there was none in sight. “Jarvis?” he asked uncertainly.

“Yes, Captain?” came the answer from all around him.

“Could you shut that off?” He waved a hand towards the TV as he stood. The TV turned off, and Steve collected their plates and bottles.

Bucky had kissed him. And it was just as shocking — truthfully, just as _wonderful_ — as that first time, seventy-plus years ago. Only this time, it hadn’t been because of a dare —

 _An order,_ whispered that voice in the back of Steve’s mind. He shook his head to silence it, because Bucky had had enough orders for a lifetime. _Ten_ lifetimes.

And if Bucky had asked, _“What do you want, Steve?”_ just like he had seventy-plus years ago, it was probably... memory. Steve couldn’t hold him to it. Bucky had a chance at a fresh start now, to do what _he_ wanted. The old Bucky wouldn’t have gone three nights in a row without going to a dance hall or picking up some new dame. What Bucky and Steve did was nothing compared to Bucky’s _real_ sex life.

So, it was up to Steve to let Bucky know that they were still friends, no matter what. Hell, Steve could even go back to their old ways, with double-dates that might not be such disasters... assuming Steve wasn’t a wanted fugitive. He’d really have to see if he was on watchlists or most wanted posters. But that could wait.

For now, he finished washing the dishes by hand, since Stark’s dishwasher looked like something out of that stupid movie. Then he gathered up his courage and went right to Bucky’s door, where he knocked and called, “Buck?”

It was Jarvis who answered, though, speaking out of the glowing glass plate beside the door. “Sergeant Barnes is not in, Captain.”

A little put off by being answered by a computer, Steve asked, “Is he down in the sparring room?” It seemed logical enough. Bucky had always liked going to the gym to blow off steam.

“No, Captain. Sergeant Barnes left the building a short time ago. Shall I take a message for him?”

_Left?_

Steve wanted to go after him. Bucky had no idea what the twenty-first century was like, did he? What if he got lost? What if something happened to trigger a reversion to the Winter Soldier?

Then he remembered that Natasha had been helping Bucky for two straight months. If she’d brought him here, to Manhattan, and hadn’t warned the computer to keep Bucky on the premises, then she must have decided he was safe.

And not Steve’s responsibility.

Steve sighed and turned to go to his room —

And jumped in surprise as Natasha’s soft voice said, “Good decision, Cap.”

“What?” he blurted, staring at her. She was in a T-shirt that barely skimmed her hips, leaving Steve nowhere safe to look. And behind her — Well, _that’s_ where Sam was.

“He doesn’t need a keeper,” Natasha said bluntly. “Just people who care about him.”

Her soft words hit Steve like knives. He cared — he _more_ -than-cared — but it was his fault that Bucky had left.

“I do,” Steve told her. “I guess I don’t know how to talk to him anymore.”

She arched a brow. “What would you have said to him on New Year’s Eve?”

Steve frowned. “Natasha —” was as far as he got before something else occurred to him. The look on Natasha’s face, the way she’d been staring at Bucky’s picture... “You recognized him.”

The faintest hint of a smile appeared, only to vanish like smoke. “So you _can_ think.”

“You knew. You _knew_ he was still alive,” Steve accused, crossing the hall again.

“I knew the Winter Soldier was still out there. I didn’t know if _Bucky Barnes_ was under there, or if he’d been completely wiped out.”

“And you knew he’d be coming for me. Did you know all of it? HYDRA?”

She tensed. “I knew his handlers couldn’t afford to leave the Winter Soldier’s face on public display like that. That’s all. I told you in the hospital, I don’t know _everything_.”

“Why didn’t you at least _warn_ me?”

“I didn’t have all the information. And what difference would it have made? Would you have let him kill you?”

Steve gritted his teeth to shut himself up, because he knew she was right. He wouldn’t have let Bucky — the Winter Soldier — kill anyone. And he wouldn’t have let Bucky stop him from replacing that circuit blade.

“It’s different now,” he said, more to himself than to Natasha. He took a deep breath and made himself meet her eyes. “Whatever happened in the past — It doesn’t matter. As long —”

“Maybe not to you,” she cut in. “The past is all he has.”


	11. Chapter 11

**Monday, July 6, 2014**

Contrary to what most people thought, Captain America did need sleep. Hell, Steve _liked_ sleep most nights, at least when he wasn’t trapped in a cycle of nightmares that would sometimes last for days at a shot. Nightmares about HYDRA and Nazis and troops dying. Bucky dying.

And when he woke up with the image of Bucky’s body falling from the train, his first thought was that it was deeply unfair to _still_ have that nightmare. Bucky was _alive_.

It wasn’t until he was standing half-awake under steaming hot water that he realized the nightmare could have been worse. It could have been about last night.

God, how the _hell_ could he get out of this mess? Bucky was remembering his past in fragments. And of all the fragments to remember, it had to be _that_. As far as Steve could understand, Bucky had been a mindless, mind-controlled assassin for _decades_. What if Bucky wanted _that_ because he was used to taking orders, not because he really remembered what they’d once done together?

Just the thought of taking HYDRA’s place made Steve’s stomach turn.

Feeling even worse than he had before the shower, he dressed and dragged himself out to the kitchen, hoping food and coffee might help. He found Sam and Natasha on the couch watching TV. Sam was in one corner with Natasha sprawled beside him, feet in his lap. There was no sign of Bucky.

“Hey,” Sam said, smiling only slightly. Natasha just stared.

Steve muttered a greeting and went to the coffee pot. It had a vacuum-sealed steel carafe instead of glass, so it wouldn’t scorch. Thankfully, it was half-full and still hot. He poured a cup and drank a couple of sips before bothering to add milk and sugar.

When the TV switched to a commercial, Steve took a deep breath, gathered his tattered courage, and said, “So, uh... Sam? Got a minute?”

Sam’s expression was far too knowing — far too wise — for Steve’s comfort. “Yeah, have a seat,” he said, nodding at the nearby armchair. “Jarvis, kill the TV, please?”

Steve hesitated, thinking he wasn’t ready to face both Sam and Natasha — not with what he had to discuss. Then again, if Natasha had helped Bucky recover his memories, Bucky had probably told her everything they’d once done.

God, that was worse. _He_ didn’t want to have that discussion with Natasha, but he certainly didn’t want to face her knowledge of whatever Bucky might have revealed.

He crossed to the armchair and sat down, resting his elbows on his knees so he could look into his coffee cup, rather than at Sam and Natasha. “Is Bucky around?”

He heard rustling, and out of the corner of his eye, he saw Natasha sit up and move next to Sam. “He hasn’t come back yet,” she said.

Steve frowned at her. “Is he —” He cut off, worried that Bucky was hurting and alone. The thought that the Winter Soldier could do terrible damage to innocent people — to the whole damn city — barely crossed his mind.

“He’s a big boy,” Natasha said so bluntly that Steve winced.

“Okay,” Sam said, drawing out the word. “So, I’m missing something here.”

Steve took a deep breath, reminding himself that this was a new world. A new century. And _some_ of what he and Bucky had done was acceptable now. “Bucky and I... We used to...” He leaned forward to put down the coffee mug before he could break it. “We used to... go together. Sort of.”

“‘Go together,’” Sam repeated. “Like, dating?”

Steve nodded, darting a quick look at Sam. “Not that open. But yeah. Kind of.”

After a few seconds of tense silence, Sam said, “Okay... So, does this mean you two are getting back together?”

Steve glanced up again, only to flinch when Natasha’s eyes bored right into his skull. “I don’t know,” he said softly. “I mean, I — What we did, it shouldn’t... It’s probably... bad.”

Natasha let out a sigh. “If you tell me it’s _bad_ because you’re both men, I’ll go get —”

 _“No!”_ Steve blurted.

“— my guns...” Natasha’s eyes narrowed.

“Easy.” Sam shot her a quick grin. “Let’s not get blood on Stark’s carpet.”

Steve slumped back in his chair, thinking Natasha’s guns were a better option than this. “We’d... We’d just... _do_ —”

“Okay, hang on,” Sam interrupted. “Natasha, could you maybe give me and Steve a couple minutes here? This feels like a guy-talk moment.”

Much as Steve wanted to agree, he shook his head. “No. I mean, she knows Bucky. Maybe better than I do.”

“He’s finally making sense,” Natasha said, settling comfortably against Sam’s shoulder.

Sam let out a breath. “Okay. So, you and Bucky used to... what? Fool around?”

“I suppose.” Steve’s shrug made him aware of how he’d hunched his shoulders, as if trying to revert to being small and invisible. “We never really talked about it. It just sort of happened.” He took a deep breath, staring fixedly at the carpet. “One day, I... sort of challenged him to kiss me.”

Silence met that announcement. When Steve glanced up, he saw Natasha and Sam watching him. Sam finally raised his brows, asking, “And?”

“He did.”

This time, Natasha and Sam exchanged a quick look.

Steve frowned, sitting up. “Bucky didn’t tell you any of this?” he asked Natasha.

She shook her head, still frowning. “I knew he was attached. You were his focus — what helped bring back his memories.”

Hesitantly, Sam asked, “Did something happen that you _didn’t_ want?”

“What?” Steve blinked a couple of times before Sam’s meaning hit. “No! I mean — no. Not to either of us. At least, I don’t think so...”

“You don’t think?” Natasha asked sharply.

Steve tensed up all over again. “He never — We didn’t _talk_ about it,” he said, almost pleading with her to understand. “I’d just... tell him to do something, and he would.”

“I’m not —”

“Oh,” Sam cut in. “And you’re thinking that has something to do with what HYDRA did.”

Sam’s words, gentle as they were, hit Steve like bullets. He  looked back down and gave a curt nod. “Yeah.”

“Was this before you were in the Army?” Natasha asked.

Steve nodded. “Yeah. It was Thanksgiving, nineteen... thirty-six? Thirty-seven, maybe? A couple of years before.”

“That explains it.”

Steve looked up at Natasha’s tone. Sam frowned at her, asking, “What?”

She arched an eyebrow. “HYDRA needed a team of soldiers to keep him prisoner, scientists to reprogram him, and machines that nearly killed him just to maintain their control. Obviously a teenager who’s not even a hundred pounds could accomplish the same thing.”

Steve let out a huff. “Come on, Natasha. I’m not an idiot.”

“Aren’t you?”

Steve’s old temper flared. He clenched his fists on the arms of the chair. “Am I?” he shot back at her.

“Hang on, both of you,” Sam interrupted sharply. “There’s a world of difference here, Steve.”

“Is there?” he demanded. “Because all I see is _me_ telling him what to do, and then _them_ doing the same damned thing.”

When Natasha went to speak, Sam held up one finger. “Hang on, Nat. Steve, I’m gonna go out on a limb here and say you’ve never heard of BDSM.”

“Uh —”

“Right,” Sam said, looking at Natasha.

She sighed and got up. “He’s all yours, Sam.” She stepped over Sam’s legs and told Steve, “You’re an idiot, but maybe not completely hopeless.”

Steve blinked up at her. “Thanks?”

Smiling fondly, Sam watched her head into the hallway to their quarters. Then he turned back to Steve and asked, “You said Bucky never told you ‘no’ or ‘stop’ or anything?”

“Never.”

“Okay.” He stood up, beckoning for Steve to also rise. “Go get changed. We’re going out.”

“To find Bucky?”

“To get breakfast, and then get you an education. You’re gonna need more than a half cup of coffee for this.”

 

~~~

 

“The first thing to understand,” Sam had said at least three times over bagels and coffee, “is that as long as you use common sense, talk everything out, and _listen_ if the other person says no or a safeword, then it’s probably okay.”

Most of that, Steve had understood. Believed, in fact. Otherwise, he never would’ve dared Bucky to kiss him that first time, because almost _everyone_ said that any sort of attraction between two men was wrong. Hell, at the time, it had been illegal, even.

“But we didn’t talk it out,” had been his first objection.

“Yeah, well, you were young and stupid, and we all do that sort of thing. Maybe not that _specific_ kink, but hell, man, you were exploring.”

Sam’s understanding had given Steve the courage to ask, “And what’s a safeword?”

Sam had winced. “I’ll leave that to the experts. Basically, it’s another word for ‘no’.”

“Why not —”

“Just say no? Again, the experts.”

Which was how Steve found himself standing on Second Avenue, outside a boutique between a fireplace store and a dog groomer’s. One window displayed mannequins in the sort of lacy outfits that Steve had never even imagined, even after Dernier had told stories of pre-War France. The other window was ominously hidden behind a white roll-down shade with _The Pleasure Chest_ written in neat black letters.

“Uh, Sam,” he said tentatively. He wasn’t an idiot, after all. He’d seen shops like this in DC, though he’d never actually gone inside. “Isn’t this —”

“Exactly what you need? Yeah, trust me.” Sam took hold of Steve’s arm and gave him a firm push towards the propped-open door.

Faced with the choice between fighting Sam, easy as it would have been, and surrendering, Steve reminded himself that Sam was helping and gave in.

One step inside, and he froze, eyes locked to a red light-up display that said _SEX IS BACK_. Next to it was a blond female mannequin in black lace and fishnets, with a top hat. In one hand, she held what Steve at first thought was a sort of horse’s tail, before realizing the strands were all leather.

He wrenched his eyes away, to a long table with brochures at one end. They looked like normal announcements for shows, except they were for things like “sex toy socials”. Beyond were art books and sculptures of rabbits — perfectly normal rabbits, only they were blindfolded.

It was almost a relief to see the sort of toys that a lot of the USO girls had gotten pretty bad about hiding in their luggage and backstage. Sure, theirs hadn’t been pink or purple, and they certainly hadn’t had flashing lights inside them, but at least Steve was on familiar ground.

A woman walked towards them, and Steve got out of her way, thinking she, like him, had probably been dragged in here by a ‘helpful’ friend. She was probably a local businesswoman out for an early lunch or something.

But instead of leaving, she stopped and gave Steve and Sam a warm, friendly smile. “Welcome to the Pleasure Chest. Can I help you two find something?”

She _worked here?_

“Yeah, thanks,” Sam said, returning the smile. “My friend here needs some advice, getting into BDSM with his boyfriend.”

Steve gaped at Sam, thinking that even a super-soldier should be able to spontaneously die of embarrassment when necessary.

“Oh, sure,” the woman said, turning the full force of her smile on Steve. “I’m Melanie, by the way. So, you’re just starting out?”

“Um,” Steve forced out. “Maybe — a book?” he suggested when he saw a rack of books, thinking desperately. A book, he could take home and read. Or hide under the mattress. Or burn before Tony saw it.

“Sure thing,” she said, heading that way. “Can I ask a couple of questions first? I can help narrow down the choices.”

 _No,_ Steve thought, but he nodded anyway, knowing Sam would drag him through this whole ordeal at gunpoint if necessary.

Instead of asking, though, she told him, “Don’t worry about it at all. I do this every day. You can’t shock me.”

“You’re in good hands. I’m gonna go look around. You two talk,” Sam told Steve, patting his shoulder.

Feeling abandoned, Steve looked back at her, and she gave him another reassuring smile. “Can you give me an idea what you two are thinking? Role playing, restraint, a little pain, a lot of pain...”

Steve blinked at her calm, matter-of-fact tone, as if this really was perfectly normal. Of course, for her, it _was_ , if she worked here. Which he still couldn’t entirely believe. She wouldn’t have looked out of place at a library or school. Hell, she looked more respectable and professional than most politicians he’d been forced to deal with over the last couple of years — though all that meant was that she probably wasn’t HYDRA.

That thought sent a shock of almost hysterical amusement through him, cracking through his shock and fear. He even managed a smile that came close to genuine.

“No pain,” he said, even though he remembered how much Bucky had liked when Steve would bite him or pull on his hair. After all they’d both suffered, Steve wasn’t ready to cross that line. Not yet, maybe not ever.

“Not a problem. That’s only a small part of it.”

Encouraged, Steve said, “Maybe restraint? Not too much.” He didn’t even want to think of Bucky strapped to that table in Zola’s lab seventy years ago, much less what else he’d gone through with HYDRA.

“Hmm. You don’t strike me as the fuzzy handcuffs type.”

Steve blinked. “No, ma’am.”

She beamed at him. “Maybe shibari. We’ve got some workshops. But this” — she reached over to one of the shelves, then handed him what looked at first glance like an art book — “is the sort of thing you can do, once you really get into it.”

Steve’s first thought was that the model on the cover, photographed in black and white, looked like she was flying. It took him a couple of seconds to notice that all she was wearing was rope wound around parts of her body, holding her suspended. He forgot to be embarrassed as he opened the book, thinking only of how much he’d like to draw this sort of thing. This wasn’t sex; it was art.

“How long does this take?”

“To get good at it, or to actually do some of these?”

“To do. It can’t be comfortable,” he said, pausing at a model who’d been posed almost bent backwards in half, balanced on his fingertips and toes.

“Sometimes it isn’t, but you’d be surprised. Give enough support, be careful not to cut off circulation... It can be pretty relaxing.”

Steve shot her a look, biting back the urge to ask if _she’d_ done this.

She grinned and patted the book, saying, “You hang onto that and come with me. What’s your favorite color?”

He followed her through the store, feeling much more at ease, despite the little shocks as he glimpsed things that felt very private, like the partial mannequins wearing underwear made of little more than lace scraps or bits of leather. “Uh... blue?”

She brought him around to the other side of the store, where there was a lot less lace and a lot more leather, most of it black. She opened and closed drawers, searching, until she came up with a neat coil of rope dyed a brilliant blue. “Hand-twisted hemp, fully conditioned. The more you use it, the softer it gets.”

Steve took it from her automatically. It was heavy and strong, about half an inch in diameter. In the book, the ropes looked light and comfortable, but this felt... real. This wasn’t his tie or his belt. “I don’t know...”

“That’s okay. You can always come back for it. Maybe bring him along, see what colors he likes?” she suggested.

Nearly choking on the thought of bringing Bucky here, he handed the rope back to her and looked away. All the black leather here looked uncomfortably grim, but here and there, he spotted a splash of red or white. Then a deep reddish brown caught his eye, and he wandered that way.

“If you don’t see what you like, we can also custom order anything for you,” Melanie offered. “We have a few really good leather-workers who are local.”

“A” — Steve swallowed, remembering how Bucky had simply let Steve put the belt around his throat and pull it tight — “a collar, maybe?”

“With rings?”

He blinked at her. “Rings?”

She slipped past him and reached for one of the displays. Then she set a black strap on the nearby table. It had a complicated buckle at one end and large steel rings riveted to it at even intervals. “You can use them with rope, cuffs, or a leash. Just be careful you don’t make it too tight or put too much pressure here,” she said, touching the front of her own throat.

He glanced around, suddenly terrified that Sam was there, watching, but he was out of sight, probably still on the other side of the store. “A leash,” he said, voice dropping to a tight, strained near-whisper. “And do you have them in brown? Maybe something old and soft?”

She smiled that same reassuring, calming smile, and picked up the black collar. “Old, no, but I think the rest we can manage.”

 

~~~

 

Tension crackled up and down Bucky’s spine as he stepped out of the elevator, braced for the sight of Steve. He’d tried all night to get Steve out of his head, walking down dark streets full of predators who didn’t have the guts to come at him, but it hadn’t helped. He’d walked until the buildings had crumbled into weed-choked ruins and then turned into pristine restored condos surrounded by artisanal cafes — closed at that hour, of course — and then walked all the way back.

His body was too perfect a weapon to feel fatigue. His lungs were too efficient to choke on the exhaust fumes. His feet were too callused to develop blisters even in new boots. And Steve was locked in his mind, pulling Bucky’s thoughts every time he swept too far away, reminding Bucky of the Smithsonian’s display of planets. Bucky was a comet, a ball of ice meant to live in the dark and cold void of space, trapped by the gravity of the blazing star that was Steve Rogers.

If Bucky had been capable of feeling emotion — of _understanding_ emotion — he didn’t know if he’d love Steve or hate him. Probably both. Because like the forces that governed a comet screaming through the darkness, Steve had pulled Bucky close, only to send him spinning away.

And now, there was no sign of Steve in the living room. Only Natasha, perched on a stool at the breakfast bar, hands dancing over the keyboard of a sleek white laptop.

“Hey. You okay?” she asked, worry in her dark eyes.

Bucky nodded. “I need a shower. Food.”

“Did you want me to cook?” The offer was genuine, but she’d taken care of him for two months. That was more than enough.

“I’ll make a sandwich.” He didn’t think he had the mental energy to think of a recipe and actually cook something. “Did you want one?”

“No, thanks,” she said, watching him instead of turning back to her laptop.

He sighed, knowing what she was waiting for. “Where’s Steve?”

“He’s out with Sam.”

Bucky didn’t know if he should be relieved or upset. He settled for a nod of acknowledgement before he went to shower and change clothes. On the way to New York, Natasha had stopped at an outlet mall to take him shopping. He couldn’t remember having this many clothes, even back in Brooklyn, before the War.

Now, though, he was grateful. He pulled on sweats and a T-shirt, picked up a matched pair of Glocks, and then went back to the kitchen. He’d eat, then head down to the range and work out the aggression that still lingered after all that walking.

Natasha was gone from the kitchen, leaving Bucky to put together a sandwich in comfortable silence. He caught a glimpse of the woman who actually lived here — Ms. Potts, Natasha had said — and once heard a muffled explosion that would’ve alarmed him, had he not been warned that explosions were normal.

Somehow, being here was comforting because of that.

The range was four flights down — a quick jog on the stairs, rather than an elevator ride. He went through two boxes of ammunition, firing primarily left-handed. The range computer tracked his scores so he and Natasha could review the data. Even though they’d scanned Bucky’s left arm for traps or trackers and found none, she was still worried that HYDRA hadn’t crafted the arm to withstand long-term use without constant recalibration and maintenance.

The shooting helped him relax in a way that his night-long walk hadn’t. Finally tired enough that he might be able to sleep, he went back up to the living room, where he heard Sam saying, “... see this offer of Stark’s. I liked what I was doing at the VA, but this seems a hell of a lot more important.”

“You can’t beat the funding, and Agent Hill’s a top-notch analyst and coordinator,” Natasha answered, looking up as Bucky walked in. “Like the Glocks?”

“They’re all right.” Bucky went to the kitchen, where he set the weapons down on the counter. “I’m _used to_ composites, but I remember everything being heavier. All metal.” He washed his hands, telling himself not to ask about Steve. Last night, Steve had made his position very clear. Bucky needed to move on — to forget that one part of his past.

“Sam and I are going out later,” Natasha said, changing the subject abruptly enough that Bucky’s suspicions flared. “Tony’s going to the opening of a new play. Agent Hill is worried about security. He’s not exactly subtle.”

Without thinking, Bucky offered, “Do you need my help?”

Natasha shook her head. “We’re providing on-the-ground support. Hill has shooters in place, and Stark’s got an army of security drones.”

Bucky considered protesting. The idea of an op — especially a protection detail, rather than a hunt — was appealing. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d gone on a mission that hadn’t ended in fire and death, all the way back to the War. _Before_ the war.

He looked down at the water running over his hands, washing away the last of the soap and gunpowder residue. What he _wanted_ was to protect someone. To protect _Steve_ , the way he had back in Brooklyn.

He dragged in a breath, hands clenching. He remembered, but he didn’t _feel_ it. The lingering fog of anxiety that surrounded him every time Steve was out of his sight, because he just knew Steve was going to pick a fight with someone who wouldn’t stop at knocking him out cold. The sharp spike of terror when he saw Steve go down and thought he’d be too late to intervene.

Memories. Not feelings. But no less gripping for that lack.

 _It’s different now_ , he told himself, forcing his hands to relax. He could hear Natasha and Sam talking again, though he paid no attention to their words. He turned off the water and dried his hands, remembering all the near-misses that Steve had survived in the War. Remembering the files he’d studied, documenting Steve’s fighting style in the Chitauri invasion and his subsequent missions for S.H.I.E.L.D., he knew that Steve didn’t need help against a ground-based enemy. That he could survive wounds that would kill ten ordinary soldiers.

He didn’t need Bucky. And Bucky needed to _not_ need him.

 _Stark,_ he thought as he dried his hands and picked up his weapons. He’d clean his guns, shower, and then go talk to Stark about getting a spot in this privatized army of his. Maybe he wouldn’t be trusted to work with the Avengers — and really, Bucky couldn’t blame him for that — but he could work with another team, maybe at a satellite location, somewhere on the other side of the continent.

Having a plan helped. Distance would help even more. If he couldn’t have Steve — if he couldn’t figure out if there really was _something_ between them or just old memories — then he could at least have a life of his own.


	12. Chapter 12

**Monday, July 6, 2014**

Steve stayed in his room, reading through two of the three books he’d ended up buying. He refused to consider it _hiding_. And he didn’t even start with the shibari book, knowing he would’ve been tempted to kill time drawing rather than actually educating himself. Instead he started with the one Melanie had said was a good introduction to BDSM, one that focused mostly on practical advice.

Halfway through the first chapter, Steve stopped so he could figure out how to use the coffeepot on his dresser and to get a fresh notebook. There was _a lot_ more to this than he’d expected.

By the time his growling stomach suggested he get dinner, he’d come to the conclusion that a lot of what was in those books wasn’t for him. He suspected Bucky would feel the same way, but... obviously he could no longer trust himself to know what Bucky did and didn’t want.

He didn’t leave his room until he’d organized his thoughts into just a few notes. Safewords were right out, because he didn’t want to even _pretend_ to ignore _anyone_ saying “stop” or “no,” much less Bucky. And he didn’t want Bucky calling him by some made-up title. Even back in their Howling Commando days, Steve was more often “Steve” or “Rogers” or “Cap” if they were in front of other officers — never “sir.”

Pain was on the maybe-list, but only if it was what Bucky _really_ wanted, and only because of how much Bucky had once liked when Steve would use his teeth and nails on him. Outside of sparring, which was a completely different set of rules, Steve couldn’t bear the thought of hitting Bucky with his hand, much less a fist, but maybe something else — something light that wouldn’t actually cause harm. Of course, with Steve’s strength, almost anything could be a weapon, but Bucky had the same resilience as Steve, so maybe... _Maybe_.

And he didn’t want to tie Bucky to anything. Definitely not the bed — too close to how he’d found Bucky in that factory — and maybe not even a chair. But he’d used his tie on Bucky a few times back in Brooklyn, and they’d both liked that.

The collar, though... That was a problem. It had seemed a safe bet at first, similar to the belt, but then Steve had read all the _meaning_ attached to it. God. He’d barely skimmed the surface and hadn’t gone near the “suggested additional reading materials” because it was all too much. Collars as wedding bands, service contracts, submissives versus slaves, total power exchange... Maybe once, Steve would’ve gotten a little thrill thinking about having Bucky be _his_ , but not after what Bucky had gone through.

This was probably a terrible idea. He was _definitely_ a terrible person for even thinking of Bucky like this. And hell, after last night, Bucky would probably laugh in his face if he brought up any of this.

So much for feeling better.

Throwing the notebook aside, Steve went to the bathroom, combed his hair, and then left the shelter of his room — and immediately regretted his decision when he found the spacious dining room occupied. Natasha and Sam were there, along with Bucky, Pepper Potts, and even Tony, looking very much the worse for wear in a T-shirt spotted with holes and scorch marks.

“Hey, just in time, Cap,” Tony said, cheerfully oblivious to Steve’s sudden desire to run and hide. “Pepper made gnocchi.”

“Pepper ordered dinner from an Italian restaurant down the street,” she corrected.

“Made. As in, caused to be,” Tony clarified, waving Steve over.

Pepper sighed and rose. “I’ll get you a plate.”

“I’ve got it, ma’am. Please,” Steve said automatically, relieved at the excuse to turn away from the table for a few seconds, hopefully long enough to gather his composure. He got a plate, silverware, and a wine glass, even though he would’ve preferred a beer. When he turned back, he froze for a moment, because Tony was at the head of the table, with Pepper and Sam to either side. Natasha was next to Sam and opposite Bucky. And Steve _wanted_ to sit down next to Bucky, but he didn’t know if he’d be welcome —

A clatter of metal snapped Steve out of his thoughts. Bucky surged to his feet so quickly that he overturned his chair. Natasha was a half-second behind him, hands clenching her knife and fork, turning them from exquisite silverware to deadly weapons.

“Whoa, hey,” Tony said, waving them back down as the clatter grew louder. “It’s fine. JARVIS, manufacturing’s done, I take it?”

“Yes, sir,” the computer answered.

“Manufacturing?” Pepper asked in an ominous tone. “Tony...”

“Hey, not my idea,” Tony said, turning his smile on her. “Blame Cap and the bird-man.”

“ _Bird_ -man?” Sam protested.

“Bird-man, meet bird-bot,” Tony said, and then gave a sharp whistle.

What entered the dining room was a ‘bird’ in skeleton form — a bird the size of a coffee table, with clockwork brass claws and a shining steel framework where its body should have been. The beak was engraved brass, and its tail was a raised majestic spread of narrow steel rods tipped with filigree brass, gold, and silver.

“That’s...” Steve trailed off.

“Aw, shit. Robo-peacocks,” Sam said.

Tony beamed at him. “And I have you two to thank for it. Way to go, guys.”

Sam stared at the metallic monster. “How the hell —”

Tony interrupted, “Surveillance. You think anything goes on in the public areas of this tower without me knowing?” He grinned proudly, adding, “You just wait until I weaponize them.”

Pepper’s sigh of resignation was almost lost under the clatter of the robot peacock trying to cross the polished floor. Its brass claws had no traction, and it kept slipping. Tony went to rescue the peacock, while Sam and Natasha scrambled out of the path of the peacock’s tail. Weaponized or not, the brass ends of each tail ‘feather’ looked deadly sharp.

Steve glanced at Bucky, who was grinning at the chaos, amusement lighting up his blue eyes. The sight lodged Steve’s heart in his throat, and he had to catch his breath — and his courage — before he made his way to Bucky’s side. Ignoring the whole peacock mess, Steve said, “It’s probably safer to have dinner in the living room.”

Bucky’s smile didn’t fade, precisely, but when he looked into Steve’s eyes, the smile became more distant. Guarded. “Probably,” he said, looking at Tony and Sam, who were trying to get close enough to the peacock to turn it right-side up, but the tail was holding them at bay. Every time the sharp-edged ‘feathers’ got too close, Pepper winced.

Natasha had her phone out, pointed at them. Steve suspected this was going to end up on YouTube.

“Just let me fill my plate. I’ll join you?” Steve said, voice rising into a question as his courage failed.

Bucky met his eyes again, and Steve wished like hell that he knew what Bucky was thinking, the way he once might have. There were too many decades between them. Too much blood. Too many misunderstandings.

But thank God, Bucky finally nodded. “Okay,” he agreed, picking up his plate, though he didn’t reach for his wine glass.

Steve seized the potential opening, asking, “Want me to get you a beer instead?”

Bucky’s grin returned. He threw one quick, almost guilty look in Pepper’s direction, then nodded. “Please.”

Relieved, Steve nodded. “You got it, pal.”

 

~~~

 

Bucky had to make peace with Steve somehow. Until he could have that talk with Tony, they were all stuck living together, after all. So he sat on the couch next to Steve, with a foot of space between them, eating dinner off opposite ends of the coffee table.

The last twenty-four hours had changed so much. Opened his eyes, for one thing. The connection between them had to be solely in Bucky’s scrambled memories, like the ghost of a bright light still visible against closed eyelids. He didn’t _feel_ it — or if he did, he didn’t know it as an emotion. He’d wanted to explore it, to see if he could do more than simply remember, but now he knew the truth. There was nothing to explore. Only memories.

Thinking to find some other common ground with Steve, Bucky said, “You should carry a gun. Your shield isn’t sufficient, as a weapon.”

“Most people can’t catch it like you did,” Steve said. “Besides, I do too much fighting in civilian areas. I don’t like the risk of missing my target.”

Bucky frowned. “Then don’t miss.”

Though he was no expert at reading expressions, Steve’s grin seemed relaxed. “If only it were that easy. You were always the better shot.”

“I know.” Only when it was out did Bucky realize that could be seen as arrogant, even though it was also true. “Sorry. I could work with you, though.”

“I’d like that.” Steve went back to eating dinner, though he kept glancing at Bucky between bites, until finally Bucky’s patience broke.

“What?”

Steve’s shoulders tensed as if he were bracing himself. “I wanted to say I’m sorry about last night.”

The unexpected words snapped Bucky into high alert. He put down his fork, asking, “Why?”

“Because,” Steve said slowly, “I was making assumptions that I shouldn’t have. I really am sorry.”

Bucky had to look away. He stared down at his plate instead, and something in his chest went tight. He nodded, trying to catalog his body’s reactions and line them up with his thoughts, but he had no idea what he was feeling — not physically and not, if it was even possible, emotionally.

“Okay.”

Steve glanced at Bucky’s plate, then over at the chaos still happening in the living room. Tony and Sam were apparently arguing over giving the robot peacocks repulsor technology to simulate flight. Pepper and Natasha had skipped the rest of the dinner and were sharing a plate of tiramisu and the rest of the wine.

Turning back to Steve, Bucky stood and said, “Let’s go. They won’t notice.”

“Natasha will,” Steve said, though he also rose.

Bucky smiled at that. He was proud of how well he’d taught her, even if he now knew his teaching methods hadn’t been ethical — not that they’d had a choice. “She won’t say anything.”

With one last look back at the others, Steve headed for the hallway to their quarters. Bucky was surprised when Steve stopped at his own door rather than continuing on to Bucky’s. He unlocked the door with a hand scan, then went in, holding it open for Bucky.

The room was a mirror image of Bucky’s, with the bathroom off to the right, desk to the left of the door, and the bed against the left wall. The room was neatly squared away, except for what looked like a belt coiled on the dresser beside a stack of three books, turned with their pages out, so Bucky couldn’t see the spines. A quick scan showed no obvious weapons, other than Steve’s shield leaning against the wall beside the folding closet doors.

Steve closed the door and looked around a little uncomfortably. “Last night, you —” he began, and then stopped. He walked into the room, glancing at the dresser as he passed it. The way his steps slowed as he moved betrayed his discomfort. He hesitated before reaching the far side of the bed as if realizing there was nowhere for him to go.

Bucky had re-learned the art of the exasperated sigh from Natasha. He used it now, leaning back against the door, crossing his arms. “I kissed you,” he said bluntly.

Steve turned back. “Yeah. And I...” He took a deep breath. “I kissed you back,” he said in a rush.

 _That_ wasn’t what Bucky had expected. He stared at Steve, wondering what _he_ expected in return. When Steve stayed silent, Bucky said, “You didn’t. Not the way you used to.”

Steve flinched. “Yeah. After — No, first... How much do you remember of... of what else we used to do?”

“I can’t say ‘everything,’ because there may be something I’ve forgotten, only I wouldn’t know,” Bucky said bluntly. “And ‘a lot’ has no context —”

“Okay, yeah,” Steve interrupted. He clasped his hands in front of himself and looked down.

Bucky remembered he had a habit of doing that before some unpleasant task, as if steeling himself for what was to come. The thought that this — talking to Bucky — was _unpleasant_ made Bucky go tense. He pushed away from the door.

“Don’t —”

“Bucky —”

They both fell silent.

“Please,” Steve said, meeting Bucky’s eyes across the room. “Let me just get this out, okay? Then — Then, whatever you want...”

It didn’t take an expert to see the discomfort radiating off Steve like heat off a parking lot in summer. Something inside Bucky didn’t like that, because it wasn’t right. It wasn’t how Steve was supposed to be.

“Go ahead,” he said, leaning back against the door.

Steve let out a breath, shoulders relaxing. He licked his lips, brows drawing together in a frown. “What we used to do, before the War, was me telling you what to do. I _thought_ that... wouldn’t be any different than what” — he hesitated, though only long enough to take another breath — “what Hydra did to you. And it took me until today to start to realize just how different those two things really are.”

Whatever Bucky had thought he was going to hear... it wasn’t _this_. He straightened up again, heart racing for no reason he could determine.

Steve licked his lips again. “You _letting_ me do that — it’s your choice. And it’s something you can revoke at any time, because you know if you say stop, I will. So it really is completely different.”

It took time for Steve’s careful wording to register with Bucky. _It is,_ Steve was saying. Not _it was_. As if this were happening now and not just in a past made up of memories held at arm’s length.

It was, in a way, almost like an offer. An invitation.

Bucky stepped away from the door. Steve didn’t move, though his eyes stayed fixed on Bucky’s. “What do you want?” Bucky asked, taking another step, then another.

“You.” It came out soft and full of things Bucky couldn’t identify, things that resonated inside him. His chest went tight, and a shudder passed across his shoulderblades and down his spine, though he couldn’t have explained why. Steve blinked, and when he opened his eyes, they were darker, pupils dilated. “Do you know what you want?”

Bucky took another step and almost shook his head, though he stopped himself. That was too close to _no_. But anything else might be too close to _yes_.

Two steps brought him to the corner of the bed. Gave him the time to think. He finally resorted to the truth: “I want to feel it.”

“Okay.” Steve didn’t smile, but the hint of it crossed his expression anyway — a twitch at the corner of his mouth, a crinkle around his eyes, a relaxing of the tension in his face and body. “No matter what, though, we stop as soon as you say so. Okay?”

Bucky let out a little huff and kept walking. “If I wanted you to stop anything, you’d stop,” he said with absolute certainty.

Steve’s laugh was sharp and full of tension. “How about you say no _before_ resorting to breaking my arm?”

“How about you learn to defend yourself so —”

“Kiss me.”

The air rushed from Bucky’s lungs. He stared at Steve —

And Steve was _different_. The tension was still there, but now it was controlled, like a coiled snake ready to strike. He stared into Bucky’s eyes, chin raised just enough to hint at authority, broad shoulders pulled back, shaping the lines of his body into a statement of strength.

In that shape, Bucky could see the ghost of a young man almost twenty centimeters shorter, sixty-five kilos lighter, with such sharp bones that he looked as if he’d snap in a strong wind. A ghost Bucky had once followed into death and battle and alley brawls and, long ago, into illicit, illegal love.

Three more steps brought him to Steve. Dissonance made him shiver when, guided by memory, he almost leaned down to kiss a body that had been short and skinny, and he forced himself to lift his face instead, reaching for a mouth an inch higher than his own.

With a little sound, barely more than a ghost of breath, Steve cupped Bucky’s face in his hands and claimed not just a kiss but Bucky’s mouth, licking at his lips and teeth and across his tongue as soon as Bucky let him inside. The technicalities of the kiss were lost under the _want_ that slammed into Bucky’s body, a _want_ that blazed into _need_ as soon as Steve’s hands slid back, fisting in Bucky’s hair, searing through every inch of his body until Steve broke the kiss with a soft laugh.

“Hands down, Buck,” he whispered, lips just an inch away.

Bucky looked down, only then realizing that he’d clutched at Steve’s shirt, tearing long gouges in it with the strength of his metal hand. He opened his mouth — and his lips were _tingling_ with the sensation of Steve’s heat — but he had no idea what to say.

“It’s okay,” Steve said, and then Steve was kissing him again. With the last bit of rational thought left, Bucky pulled his hands behind his back, wrapping his flesh and bone fingers around his metal wrist.

As if freed to do as he wished, Steve took his time, twisting Bucky’s hair slowly around his fingers as he licked Bucky’s mouth, sliding their tongues together, pulling back enough to dig his teeth into Bucky’s lip, pulling until the sting blazed into pain that turned into heat, sweeping under Bucky’s skin in waves timed to his pounding heart. Steve crowded close, moving one hand to Bucky’s back, pressing between his shoulderblades —

_“Steve.”_

The name came out like a broken cry as Steve deliberately pressed his hip into Bucky’s dick, and _this_ Bucky remembered, the choking, desperate need for more, to get rid of his pants and feel Steve’s hands and mouth. Or to get rid of Steve’s pants and take hold of _his_ dick and make Steve fly apart.

Steve let go of Bucky’s hair. “It’s okay, Buck. If you need to slow down —”

Panic spiked through the haze of desire at the thought that Steve might stop. “No!”

“Okay. Okay, Bucky...”

Steve kissed him again, but his hands were on his own body, and he stopped the kiss long enough to pull off his shirt. Then he drew Bucky close, lighting sparks behind Bucky’s closed eyes with another sharp pull on his hair, and Bucky heard noises that he had to concentrate to identify as Steve kicking off his shoes.

“Bucky.” It came out soft, and when Steve backed away, he had a wicked smile that sent another shiver right through Bucky’s body. “You remember what else I liked?”

Bucky remembered so much — maybe _everything_ — but there was too much for Bucky to know exactly what Steve wanted. Maybe Steve knew, or maybe he just liked pulling on Bucky’s hair, because the next tug was hard enough to make Bucky stagger as Steve tipped his head to the side, offering Bucky his throat.

When Bucky’s mouth touched Steve’s neck, he kissed on instinct alone. Steve’s soft, “Yeah, Bucky,” encouraged him to turn the kiss into a lick, slow and hard, from his shoulder to his ear. “Fuck, that’s good. Again,” Steve whispered, letting go of Bucky’s hair. The words — the sounds Steve made — almost made up for the loss of sensation.

And then Steve’s hands were between them, fumbling at his own blue jeans. Bucky’s arms tensed, but he stopped himself from reaching out to help, and instead he went back to kissing and licking from Steve’s shoulder to his ear and back. Each passing moment added nuances to Bucky’s memory, and every time he tried something new — dragging his teeth over Steve’s skin, ghosting breath across his ear, a flick of his tongue over his earlobe — his reward was another hitched moan or a soft gasp or a full-body shudder.

“God, Bucky,” Steve grated out as he kicked his jeans down to his feet. “Will you —”

He hesitated, body going still. Then, nearly tripping, he kicked his feet free and sat down hard, at the edge of the mattress. He kicked his jeans out of the way and looked up at Bucky, a flicker of uncertainty crossing his expression, there and gone in a heartbeat.

“On your knees, Buck,” Steve ordered, his voice as firm as if he were commanding troops into battle.

 _Yes,_ Bucky thought, falling clumsily to his knees with jarring force. Steve made another sound, thick with want, and he clutched at Bucky’s hair to pull him forward. Some old, half-recalled instinct made Bucky look up at him and slyly ask, “What else do you want, Steve?”

“Your mouth,” Steve said, eyes lighting up.

Something inside Bucky seemed to break free and soar to see that fire in Steve’s eyes. His heart lodged in his throat, silencing him, but there was nothing more to say. He knelt up, leaning against the edge of the bed, shoulders pressing against the insides of Steve’s legs, and he licked at Steve’s dick, letting memory guide him. And unlike everything else about Steve, this was just as Bucky recalled, just the right thickness and length, hard and hot against his tongue.

The world fell away, narrowing the way it did when Bucky looked through a scope, becoming nothing more than Steve’s hands in his hair and the contrast of soft skin and hard flesh, the press at the back of his throat that threatened to choke him, the way the head of Steve’s dick slipped against his soft palate and how he had to be careful but not too careful with his teeth.

And when he heard Steve’s breath hitch, the memory of panic shot through him. _Asthma_ flashed through his head, bubbling up from seventy years ago, and knowledge of biology, more recently learned, part of target vulnerability analysis. He jerked away and blinked away tears.

Steve looked down at him, mouth open, face flushed. His chest rose and fell with fast, deep, steady breaths, the very picture of health.

The hand in Bucky’s hair gentled. With his other hand, Steve touched Bucky’s face, at the corner of his mouth.

“Bucky?” he whispered.

Bucky closed his eyes, breathing hard, only now recognizing the emotion — the _feeling_ that held his heart in its fist.

 _Fear_.

“Your asthma,” he said, swallowing. “I remembered — The more we did, the more I got... scared.”

Steve leaned down, one hand lifting Bucky’s chin so they could kiss. He slid his free hand down Bucky’s metal arm, finally whispering against Bucky’s mouth, “Give me your hand.” When Bucky let go of his wrist, Steve lifted Bucky’s hand. He broke the kiss and instead touched his lips to Bucky’s metal fingertips, making Bucky shiver. “Here,” Steve said, holding Bucky’s hand to his chest, so he could feel every breath Steve took. “So you know I’m okay.”

Still on his knees, Bucky looked up at Steve, seeing understanding. Affection. And, Bucky thought, as the fear faded away, something that might be love.

“Thank you,” Bucky said quietly, letting the steady pace of Steve’s breathing fill his thoughts. He closed his eyes and counted breaths, passing a hundred before Steve’s hand went back to Bucky’s hair. The sting on his scalp startled him into opening his eyes again.

“Did I say we’re done?” Steve demanded, eyes bright.

Bucky looked up at Steve, reveling in the deep intimacy between them. Maybe this was love. Maybe it wasn’t. Whatever label others might have put on it, he knew that it was everything he wanted — and he suspected Steve felt the same.

“Didn’t say we weren’t,” Bucky shot back, and under his hand, he felt the jolt of Steve’s heart.

“Well, we’re not. So get back to it.”

“Make me,” he challenged with a cocky grin.

Laughing, Steve gave another sharp pull on Bucky’s hair, and this time, he didn’t let up at all.


End file.
